FELICIA HEILGENDORFF

“The pies?” her daughter said, pointing up and laughing.

“Pies…” she repeated, her mind suddenly spinning. “Shit! I forgot to take the pies out of the oven!” She hit the brakes hard, then sped up again, realising she was on a highway, with no place to stop or turn around. She cursed again, then silently told herself off for doing so in front of her child.

“You forgot to take the pies out?” the daughter said, now excitedly looking out the window. “I wonder who wrote that up there. Could it have been daddy?” She frowned, trying to work it out.

“No, darling. I don’t know who sprayed that on the bridge. Crap. We have to go back. I know we’ll be late for grandma’s, but…”

“Grandma won’t like that.”

“She won’t like me forgetting her pies either. Or getting burnt pies. And I won’t like my kitchen burning down.”

The child’s eyes went round in shock. “Could it, mum? Could the kitchen really burn down?”

“I don’t know!” Goddamnit, I can’t even bake, she thought to herself angrily. Her mother would scold her again, and she would have to bring her pies from the shop around the corner. As though she didn’t know that’s what she did every week.

© 2016

Sunday Photo Fiction, May 29th 2016