Mushrooms

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 24, 2017

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Submitted: September 24, 2017

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Mushrooms

He told me he wanted mushrooms for lunch, fried and served on toast. Damn it! Why hadn’t I remembered? Never mind; I saw some growing along the road. If I’m quick I can pick them, give them a wash. I’ll add a bit of seasoning and he’ll be none the wiser.

Delicious!” he says. “Did you buy them somewhere different?”

Just nod, I tell myself. “Yes, that new store. The sign said, ‘Freshly hand picked’.”

And I could taste the difference. I’ll be in the shed.”

He's not in for his afternoon cup of tea; he must be engrossed in some project or other. Still no sign of him when the dinner is cooked. I’ll leave his in the oven for a while, keep it warm.

It’s no good! It’s almost dark now. I’ll have to go out to the shed, his temple, and give him a call. The door is locked as usual – he does not like me to intrude. I’ll just have a peep in the window.

Oh dear! He’s laying on the floor, not moving. His color is all wrong. Is he dead?

Perhaps I should have looked the mushrooms up before I cooked them.


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