Flash Fiction–Postcards

Postcard #1

The second time the waiter spilled soup in Archibald’s lap, he ended up with bouillabaisse stains on his pinstripes. The waiter—he’d better succeed next time—was positively abject with apologies. I plan to wear yellow to Archibald’s funeral before I leave for Paris. See you soon, my dearest.

Postcard #2

Well, mum, you were right. Why didn’t I see it as clearly as you did? Had to trip the blundering fool twice. If she could pay him, I can pay him more. Tonight, I think. Then I’ll be home for a good long rest. After her funeral.

Fran Stewart
Atlanta Branch, GA