why are we feeding the lawyers?
My friend Michele hosted a writing challenge around18 months ago: 100 days of microfiction. I probably hit a wall around Day 17, and this piece was written, I think, on Day One. It’s 127 words.
High and fashionably late, Zelie cooled her toes in the morning dew as she dangled her sandals over the back of her chair, obliquely squaring off with her mother, their accountant and Zelie’s lawyer over brunch. They were pressing her about the money, it was always about the money. There was plen.ty.mon.ey and the constant arguing over it…gah…I’m losing joy, mama. Losing joy.
Her mother swooped in with a lethal don’t give a fuck about your joy, and Zelie’s high escaped through the portal in her soul only mothers can rip apart, the one near the base of the brain and distinctly different from the portal usually chosen by men who disappear into the goodnight leaving you for dead and island police searching your apartment at sunrise.