By Steve Isaak
Wilma, a middle-aged mother of four-year old twins, watched as her shrieking sons darted in front of other shoppers. They were outside, exiting a crowded megastore.
One of the shoppers, a beautiful blonde with prismatic blue eyes and an equally striking figure – better than the one Wilma had possessed, before booze, kids, depression and couch-living had claimed it – grimaced at Wilma, from three feet away.
Other shoppers muttered as Wilma shrilled at her children: “Clint! George Doub-ya!”
Her children ignored their 290-pound mother, kept "wehhrnn"-airplaning, their arms stuck straight out, in front of ticked-off shoppers.
The twenty-something blonde reminded Wilma of a high school classmate, Cheryl, who’d stolen Wilma’s husband, Earl.
Wilma’s cheeks blazed.
Wilma glared, shrilled at the Cheryl Look-Alike. “Watch where you’re walking, you cross-wearing, hypocritical slut! Those are my kids!”
The screech of braking tires on asphalt was heard – then a woman’s scream.
Clint and George W., who’d dashed across the parking lot pedestrian lane, lay in front of a mini van: blood puddles beneath their flaxen heads.
“Good thing you were paying attention to your kids,” sneered another shopper, shoving Wilma hard in the back.
MORAL: Rise above your personal prejudices.
Copyright ©2010, 2011 Steve Isaak. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website, in May-June 2010. It was later republished in my second anthology, Charge of the Scarlet B-sides: microsex stories & poems.