My mother stroked my hand and said she was feeling my age about the time she dropped her jewelled watch down the drain. I said it was a metaphor. She said the heart of being is not letting go. I wasn’t sure but still she grasped the nodding Jesus until it turned into a dachshund. Then both Christ and the watch had gone.
A gold-tipped, gull-winged car flew over the altar.
I expect they do cocktails now, she said. Mine’s an El Diablo.
The waitress smiled angelically and brought a large one. I ordered mixed nuts with my Last Word.
This story was shortlisted in the April Monthly Micro Competition.
About the author: Susan Wigmore enjoys writing short things though has recently challenged herself to work on a novella-in-flash. She likes experimenting with form, which is exciting but can also land her in trouble. Some small successes in print help to keep her going.