where flash fiction based upon WeirdBook Facebook posts goes to die. Or was it Weird Tales? I can never keep them apart.

My child never came home.

I remember the last day I saw her. I remember the shirt she wore. I remember struggling it over her shoulders. I remember the debate, pink pony, purple princess dragon. We went with pony. It was a tense debate. But not the like of tense debate like debating what you’ll presumably die in. We put less thought into that shirt than I did into Mom’s funeral dress. I really didn’t put any thought in it. She left detailed instructions. Now I have no one to leave detailed instructions to. And I realize. I don’t really care what my funeral dress looks like. I care about a little pink pony shirt, and a blue jean skirt that, silly me, I was lamenting would be soon grown out of. Perhaps I’ll leave a note, to bury me in purple. Because I know, she was going to disappear no matter what I dressed her in. But I just can’t help but wonder. Whoever took her, would their eye have been as drawn to a pruple princess dragon as a pink pony? I’ll never know.

Because my child never came home.