Socialite Fuckery
a micro fiction
Mother’s house reeked of hooves. I didn’t even know that was an identifiable odor until the week leading up to the Jello party of 1984. And how fitting a year. 2+2 was always 5 when she cooked.
The ladies cooed at her hard work, the intention clear: talk circles around consuming. The slop, that is.
Divine, Barbara.
Spam Jell-O too!
Oh, you’ve outdone yourself.
With the grace of a gas light sparking the darkness, Mother pranced around the ice tub with a tasting spoon, eyes devouring potential victims. Mercifully ignoring me for once.
Pigs. That’s what she called them.
Photographer: Pond Frog
* * *
Thank you for reading! This is part of a micro fiction series where I take a photo and write a story inspired by it. Each story is 100 words.
If you enjoyed, you might like this one:
About the Creator
Mackenzie Davis
Most stories are reverted to Drafts, but will keep up resources & posts that hold community significance. May drop in for tips or updates.
My love & gratitude to you all.
It's time to pivot.
Boycott ALL A.I. \ Copyright Mackenzie Davis
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Expert insights and opinions
Arguments were carefully researched and presented
Eye opening
Niche topic & fresh perspectives
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Masterful proofreading
Zero grammar & spelling mistakes
On-point and relevant
Writing reflected the title & theme
Keep reading
More stories from Mackenzie Davis and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Pearl
1980 something. we all hung out at Pearl and you and i were nothing special, or so i thought. i mean we all danced, drenched in our own sweat, our own saline solution of fear, too many beers, shots, laughter, tears, fucks in the bathroom and i don't know when we began to be afraid. do you?
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)4 days ago in Fiction
The Weight of Unfinished Melodies
The dust motes in Julian’s apartment didn’t just float; they performed a slow, agonizing ballet in the shafts of the late afternoon sun. To Julian, they looked like the debris of a thousand forgotten conversations, settling on the mahogany surface of a piano that hadn't felt the warmth of human fingertips in over a decade. He sat in his velvet armchair, a glass of amber liquid trembling slightly in his hand, watching the shadows stretch across the floorboards like ink spilling over a pristine map.
By Cordelia Vanceabout 18 hours ago in Fiction
Comments (5)
This is awesome! So clever!
Lol, this is right up my alley. I enjoyed this so much!
Orwell? 'Winston was gelatinous with fatigue.' Haha, I had to do a bit of googling. Read both of the books, but quite a long time ago. But did I see the references right or just imagined them?
Anyone else hungry? 🤢 Thanks for the gastronomic gesture!
Somehow I see Mother as Bette Davis/ Baby Jane! Disturbing- in a good way!