A protest against what is happening at American borders

My name is Isabella and I live in a shithole country.

Let me explain:

All men in my country are either rapists, drug traffickers, child molesters, or some other sort of criminal.

I live in a shithole room in shithole house on a shithole street in a shithole neighborhood in a shithole village in a shithole country.

The children in my country are not children at all! They are child actors who pretend they are afraid to be separated from their parents.

The women in my country have the shithole job…


A metaphor on critiquing

I walked home from work.

A man in a grey suit approached me. ‘It may be better to find another route,’ he said. ‘There’s a roadblock ahead. Besides, the other streets have nicer views.’

I followed his advice and strolled back to the side street I’d passed just moments ago.

A woman came up to me and pointed at a nurse sitting on a bench. ‘Better pay attention to her,’ she said. ‘One day, you might need that information.’

I gave her a questioning look. She shrugged and headed in the direction I’d come from. …


Based on a true story that happend in my family some 50 years ago.

Two days after my fourth birthday, my parents hired a housekeeper. Mrs. Chambers came over three times a week, for six years, and never once smiled. She put on her apron, did her work and left. One day, she stopped coming.

Even though she didn’t talk much and wasn’t a lot of fun to be around, I missed her. She never pretended to be someone she was not, and she didn’t care what people thought of her. Her silver hair looked like a bird’s nest and…


What could happen if your name is not your true name.

My name is Yallah.

I never had to think about it before, but today something strange happened–someone gave me another name.

As usual, I awoke when the rooster three doors down started to crow. With a watchful eye, I strolled to the end of the street to relieve myself. It was a risky business–you never knew what was hiding behind the bushes. I’d already lost three friends to the yellow monsters in the desert, and I didn’t want to become victim number four.

I hurried back to the house…


The simple act of buying bread can be a story worth reading.

Yesterday morning, I opened my fridge to find there was no more bread. I hadn’t eaten since 8 p.m. the previous evening and I was starving. The many small supermarkets in my area have bread, of course, but nothing compared to the fresh, just out of the oven, rolls the bakery on Cherry Street sells.

The best time to visit the bakery is around 4 p.m. when a new baking round has just finished. …


About living in a country where locks are not always needed.

‘Why?’ a man asked. The voice came somewhere from above and behind me, just when I squadded down next to my bicycle.

I tried to move my head and look up simultaneously, but the muscles in my neck refused any cooperation. I turned on my toes and tilted my chin toward the speaker.

A wrinkled man in worn out clothes towering above me repeated the same word, but I didn’t have a clue what he talked about. My face must have given me away. …


Your fate is sealed. Your working days are over. What do you do with your time? Pilates? Workouts? Swimming? Or do you gorge on your favorite foods?

Twenty-four hours a day…

I am dying. There you have it. In a nutshell: a malignant brain tumor, two months tops–if I’m lucky. Don’t worry; I’m not going to bore you with the details. My fate is sealed, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Death has always fascinated me and I’m not afraid or concerned about it. To be honest, I’d like it to happen sooner rather than later.

Eight hours…


Today’s flash fiction was written by Timia Breederveld. It’s a humorous look at life in Egypt, based on a true story, with Timia’s wit hovering on the edges.

A small boy came running from the desert. “The street’s on fire!”

“Did you hear that?” Mohammed stepped out of the tiny supermarket. In front of him, yellow spangles of light vaporized in the air. He lit a Cleopatra and shook his head. “That’s not a fire, it doesn’t have flames.”

“It is so!” The boy stamped his foot.

“It’s more like welding sparks.”

The kid pinched his nose. “It smells awful.”

Timia Breederveld

Timia Breederveld was born in the Netherlands and lives in Egypt. Her short stories are inspired by daily Egyptian life and surrealism. www.timiabreederveld.nl

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