Postal Prose: Postcard Flash Fiction

 I hate red. Red creeps slowly. It's sticky and smears everywhere. I despise red. Red stains, and no amount of peroxide or bleach erases it. I loathe red. Red contaminates until all I see is red. Red lipstick. Red shoes. Red underwear. Red walls. Drip. Drip. Dripping red. *** Prompt: What a character wearing something red is thinking?

 The temptation to take one and slip it in my pocket was wrong—so wrong. But it was so cute, and it needed a good home. It looked like a boy, maybe a girl. Flipping over for nimble fingers, I saw it was definitely a boy. With bushy eyebrows, a beard, and hair swept back from the forehead, I named him Chewbacca and reached to put him in my pocket. Chewy chirped and licked my hand, causing me to detour and nuzzle him to my chest. "Would you like an adoption application? *** Prompt: What would you shoplift?

The little boy’s idea of heaven didn’t smell. There were no pricks and pains. It was somewhere he could feel the sun all day, run and play, and climb high on the slides. But heaven didn’t have Momma and Big Brother, or Nana and Pop-Pop, or cuddles with Tanzy and licks from Max. They couldn’t come to heaven, not for a long time. And that made him sad, more than the needles and ouches. Maybe one day, he could play in the sun all day without going to heaven. Momma said so. *** First Line Generator: "The little boys' idea of heaven..."

  The golf club bent from repeated beatings into the once pristine green and sailed from Abby's hands into the crowd of spectators.  "I'm a nice person, really, and I love the game," Abby insisted, "but when the club disobeys. It has to die." "If you stuck with damaging clubs and not people," the therapist trailed off.  "But I didn't mean to." "Look, expelling aggression is healthy, just not when it impacts the health of others. And your aggressive temperament was increasing exponentially." The therapist clicked her tablet and showed Abby a montage of tantrums, starting with a nine-iron pounded into the ground and ending with a putter soaring, twisting into a crowd of spectators. "I lost the tournament. I'm banned from the circuit. And if I don't change, I'm going to lose my endorsements,” Abby bemoaned. "Which is why I suggested the charity game and art project which benefits domestic violence victims,...