What’s For Dinner?

By: Melissa Ratliff

Waiting in the van, it seemed Mom was taking too long. I grab a cart, one foot on the underneath basket while I push and coast along into the store. An ominous haze hovers in the aisles and everything is a little too quite. I search for life. Past the frozen food there’s an employees only door. It’s open. I peek inside. Mom’s propped up in the middle of the table, arm missing, head hanging unnaturally to the side, white. The storeowners look up as they eat. I awake in a cold sweat. Fuck this recurring nightmare I cannot shake.

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