The Lies We Tell Ourselves | Flash Fiction
The pre-dawn air shivered with the orange of pumpkins and the trembling whiskers of black cats. Arin stood in her screen porch, arms tucked into the folds of her bathrobe. She stood still, listening to the world slowly wake up. The harsh light crashed through the kitchen window and cut her shadow sharp, like a brooding goblin’s. If this were any other morning Arin would have turned and stepped back inside. She would’ve had to shower and dress, quickly snatch a granola bar as she slipped into her car for work. But this morning was different. Her mind turned to the dressed up kids standing at her front door the evening before; a princess, a headless horseman, and a superhero. She’d given them candy, praising each at how well they’d constructed their costumes. In reality, she was rewarding them for figuring out the key to life; put the best mask on and you can get anything; candy, pictures, attention. Arin shivered and returned to the present, to this morning of taking masks off
