Trace your finger around the rim and wait for the crack to touch your skin. Feel the jagged edge , the uneven break in the smooth finish and wince.

Gently trace the scar on your forehead and think: Does it match the crack?

It probably doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean it’s not the same.

Place the cup back on the table and stare at it for a few seconds. Inhale and wonder what you’ve done to earn the scar or the chipped cup.

Probably nothing. Maybe everything.

Sigh, pick up the dish towel and wipe down the cup. Time to put it back in the pantry, where it belongs with the other cups and your memories.

Turn and catch him looking at you, his fingers twitching. Too late, you see another cup near his hand, on the table. And you do the only human thing possible, in the current scenario.

Duck.


*After ages, I decided to write a flash fiction piece on the blog. 150 words this time. Rusty as hell, as you can see. But, ah, the joy of writing again, nothing quite like it. And for those of you JUST landing on the blog, believe me, this IS fiction 😉


*Featured image courtesy: Shutterstock

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12 thoughts on “The Cracked Cup

  1. Rusty? Stop underestimating yourself, dear woman!

    I loved this one. But, I hope she ducks, takes the cracked cup and throws it back at him and it breaks along with a significant portion of his sadistic head.

  2. There’s no rustiness here. I like the marrying of the chip to the scar – such an incidental detail that gives us so much about your character. Very well done.

  3. It’s so wonderful to read a fiction by you again… I have missed it. Absolutely love your crisp storytelling. I thought the scars were analogy until the last bit. That surprised me. 😊

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