Flash Fiction Friday: Peaches and Cream
by Andrew Wayne Adams
The boy felt sick. Something he ate. He stared at the table, not at the girl across from him. On his plate, whatever had made him sick—the half-eaten peas, the half-eaten ham, the half-eaten peaches and cream—was laughing silently at him. He pushed the plate aside.
The girl stabbed her fork into his peaches and cream. He wanted to warn her. She was too quick, already chewing… a dribble of cream turning clear on her lip…
Maybe it wasn’t the peaches and cream, he hoped.
She made a face.
It was the peaches and cream.
The boy held his belly. He said, “It’s not my fault. I’m sorry.”
The girl stabbed her knife into her belly. She opened herself from pubis to sternum, reached in, and pulled out the bag of her stomach. She sliced the bag open; gastric juice poured out. She reached in, scooped out the peaches and cream, and started raking clean the walls, her long nails (painted red) scraping the tissue raw. She let the peaches and cream fall to the floor, where it landed in an unexplained dog bowl that was dirty.
“All better,” she said, and put her voided stomach on the table. “The difference between you and me is, when I have an issue, I address it directly. I won’t just sit and suffer.”
The boy said, “Suffering is sweet!”
The girl passed out due to being disemboweled. Her face hit the table, right where her stomach was, and the stomach made a sound like a whoopee cushion. She was beautiful and empty.
Wincing in gastrointestinal distress, the boy slid off his seat, down to the floor. He pulled the dirty dog bowl close and lowered his face to it.
Andrew Wayne Adams has, in fact, actually eaten both peaches and cream. He wrote a book called Janitor of Planet Anilingus. He now lives in Portland where he is happy and successful.