Flash Fiction
Caffeine Chronicles: The Ballad of Ethel’s Mugshot
Ethel had a morning ritual, and it was simple: coffee before conversation. It was a rule she’d followed for years, a boundary that kept her balanced in an otherwise chaotic world. But today, chaos found her first.
It began at the grocery store, early on a Saturday morning. Ethel was in line, a cart full of essentials, her mood darkened by the absence of her morning coffee. The checkout lines were long, and a mother with a screaming toddler stood in front of her. The kid’s wails were a shrill symphony that gnawed at Ethel’s nerves. She tried to hold it together, but it was like trying to contain a hurricane in a paper bag.
“Can you quiet him down?” Ethel muttered, her patience thinning like the last drops of cream in her fridge. The mother barely glanced at her, too busy wrangling the unruly child.
Ethel’s crankiness escalated with each piercing cry. When the toddler threw a pack of gum at her, something snapped. She shot the kid a glare that could have melted stone. “You want to play with fire, kid?” she hissed, her voice like gravel.
The mother gasped, shielding her child from Ethel’s gaze. “Excuse me, lady! He’s just a kid!”
“And I’m just a woman in need of coffee,” Ethel retorted, her voice dripping with…
