If a rainbow doughnut could talk
Drama ·I wrote this 250 word microfiction for the NYC midnight contest. The story had to be a Drama, use the word “order” and the action of “hiding something under a mattress” had to take place in the story.
You hesitate to embrace me when you come home from school. Yet you ignore the tears and crumbs on my pudgy face and hug me tightly, squeezing all the folds and bulges I despise. I struggle to hug back.
I want to explain to you why I am sitting on the hard floor of my bedroom and reassure you that mommy, who hates her body, loves you. I give up before trying.
I know, but you don’t, that there is a witness to my mess and that I tucked it under the sagging mattress as you ran up the stairs.
If a rainbow doughnut could talk it would tell you how I lied to the clerk about needing a dozen doughnuts for an office party. It would proudly recount how I picked it out of the box for its perfect shape. I abandoned its comrades between dumpsters in an alley and ran home to consume it in this corner of my bedroom.
A doughnut can tell if it is being devoured for its flavor rather than eaten in order to shove shame down one’s throat.
But this doughnut, which once had an exemplary figure and sparkled for all to admire, is now a squished puddle and fails to tell its tale.
When our hug ends, I notice the charming dimples you inherited from me. You haven’t heard the rainbow doughnut’s account and yet I know you sense my embarrassment because you mumble the most beautiful three words:
“It’s okay Mommy.”