S A Greene

              Judith serves herself both of Mother’s breasts without consulting.

              ‘An arm for me, please.’ says Emma. ‘Actually, make that two.’

              I ask for the heart. Partly to give Judith the trouble of hacking through the rib cage and partly out of curiosity.

              Mother died without leaving a will, so we’ve lain her out on the kitchen table and now we’re dividing the estate. Judith, the eldest, is carving.

              ‘Yummy.’  Emma’s already started eating. ‘Yummy Mummy!’

              Judith and I exchange near-invisible eyerolls. Mummy? Really?

              Eventually, Judith reaches the heart. It crouches in her open palm like a cornered walnut. Far too small to make a meal. Judith tilts her hand and Mother’s heart drops onto my plate with a sharp metallic clink.

              My sisters eye the plate. They look at my face, and then back at the plate. They draw their own portions close, snarling.

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S A Greene writes flash and micro fiction and the lovely places that have published her words include Sledgehammer Lit., Flash Flood, Reflex Fiction, Retreat West, Ellipsis Zine, Mslexia, Free Flash Fiction, Funny Pearls, Bath Flash Festival Anthology 4, and Paragraph Planet.