Flash Fiction by Sierra D. Hill

The milky white bowl is full of candy. Blue and green and pearled pink and shell-like smoothness. Your mother kept Chick-O-Sticks, Bit-O-Honey, and Necco Wafers in hers.
The candy in the milk bowl isn’t candy. You know that. Or you had known. Before.

You’re not sure if you already washed the spoon. It’s in your hand. You’re at the sink. There’s a sponge somewhere. For silverware, do you use the scratchy side or the pillowy one? Maybe both. Your mother said: circles. Not back and forth. Circles.

The water’s running, but the sound is too loud. Or is that wind, running through the long grass by the hay field?

You used to love running in the field. Do you remember?

Dry grass snapping at your knees. Itched where it touched. No shoes. Grasshoppers popped like popcorn at your ankles.

You ran. Just because.

Then—the rumble. Gravel cracking. Your father’s truck. One door never shut right. You smelled him first: wood smoke, chain grease. Two thuds. Boots hit the ground. He looked like a giant with the sun behind him. Brown paper bag in hand. You knew-caramels. Warm from the seat.

He smiled.
You think.
The sink. Yes. Wash the spoon.

The milk bowl catches pendant light. Bumps like sugar beads. You trace them. Round and round. You loved texture. Things that spoke when you touched them. The top curls soft—like petals, seashells, hems of dresses you danced in.

Your father said, “Only one before dinner, little dove.”
Only one.
You pop one in your mouth.
No—the pod. Not candy.
Sweet.
So sweet.

The cloth beneath the bowl is ugly. You’d leave it bare. Your daughter says not to touch it. You touch it anyway. Why cover good wood? Daddy knew wood. He was a lumberjack, like the one in the big bad…the red little…

You already had one. You forgot. You eat another.
Your knees, then cheek hits the floor.
Two thuds.
Your father is home, with the brown paper bag.
The big bad little riding hood.
You taste the soap on your tongue.
It was sweet before.
You knew this. Before.