Death of the Buttercups

“Bruce! Don’t start with me.”

Andrea was headed for destruction. Self-destruction. Total annihilation. She felt the fluid in her veins tremble, bubble. It churned violently. She was a high-tech washing machine about to spill sloppy innards.

Her husband, as usual, was sunshine and buttercups. “Oh, sugar plum. You’re Andrea. Good ol’ reliable Andrea. You can handle anything.” He patted her bottom, threw a muscular arm around her shaking shoulders.

“This is the first Mother’s Day without my mom. Please. I’m crumbling here. Like that heart-shaped cookie behind the counter. I need support. Sooner or later, something’s gonna happen.” Andrea fought to keep the tears from flowing like clear lava. Her hazel orbs could be gushers.

Bruce laughed. “Don’t be silly. It’s not like you’re gonna grow antlers.” He beckoned to their daughter, Abbie, who’d just returned from the staff bathroom. “Let’s just get home. Okay?” Whistling the theme song to Hockey Night in Canada, he picked up the bag of goodies and strode for the door.

Andrea’s hands clenched. Her eyes flicked. Her teeth extended. “Bruuuuucccccceeee,” she hissed, her eyes turning techno red. “Stop. Right. There.” As Bruce watched in horror, Andrea morphed into a robotic insect, her antennae and wings ablaze with coppery wire streaks. She developed a carapace, and her legs grew thin and segmented. “This is my day. Mother’s Day. You will not take it from me. Ever.”

Abbie’s eyes were bright with awe. “Mommy! You said you’d never show Daddy your secret!”


Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Indies Unlimited:

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s