Shaggy Mexicans Make Crappy Sled Dogs

Reads: 41  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
"Hey, what awe you eating ovew thewe?" came a voice from across the street. It was sweaty glasses giwl. I couldn't stop to talk. My hand was covered in syrupy Popsicle blood.

Submitted: July 20, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 20, 2017

A A A

A A A


Shaggy Mexicans Make Crappy Sled Dogs
By Shawna Chandler

When I was a kid, I always got into fights with the shaggy-haired Mexican kids next door. Usually over really stupid things. 

One day, I got sick of the clumsy one, who kept stepping on my bare feet with his sharp cowboy boots, so I shoved him into the dirt. He cried and then his brother told me they hated me. They ditched me for the girl who always dripped beads of sweat onto the skillet of a sidewalk. Her plastic framed glasses slid down her face. She smelled like lemon Pledge and all her r sounds came out as w sounds. 

I stomped into my house and cried in the leather recliner. The air conditioner cooled my tears. My grandmother handed me a Popsicle. The kind with so much cream packed in the center it's cherry-ice crust would slip if allowed to melt, leaving the cream clinging to the stick. 

"Go eat this on the porch where all the kids can see you. They'll come around."

I puffed air into my bangs causing them to unplaster their wet locks from my forehead. Then I peeled my legs off the recliner. I walked outside and plopped myself down on the front steps. The shaded concrete felt cool on the back of my legs. This would never work. Grandma doesnt know anything about kid customs. 

I licked the top of the pop until it was soft and thin. Then bit into the sweet coolness. It cracked down the middle. Cream oozed out and I knew I had to eat it with zest or it would slide into a melted pile of goop on the ground. 

"Hey, what awe you eating ovew thewe?" came a voice from across the street. It was sweaty glasses giwl. I couldn't stop to talk. My hand was covered in syrupy Popsicle blood. A wed Popsicle?

The boys roller-skated up behind her, "Hey, can we have one?" Their mouths dangled open and the summer wind blew across their teeth.

The two boys had a rope tied around them and a skateboard lay in the grass in front of glasses girl. They were playing sled dog race again. I played that yesterday and ended up tipped over in the street with asphalt stuck in my knees. Shaggy Mexicans make crappy sled dogs.

"Sorry, last one." The last cherry bite slipped down my pipes. My tongue was numb. I crumpled the wrapper in my sticky fist and went back inside. 

I ran my cold tongue across my lips to taste the cherry flavored film that covered my mouth. Then dozed off in front of the A/C vent right after my grandmother brushed her cool limey lips across my forehead.


© Copyright 2017 Shawna Van Arum. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Flash Fiction Short Stories