by Kerrin Piche Serna

You look like a cabbage in that one. You pull it off and dump it back onto the plastic head, which looks at you with sneering, sex-painted eyes. You try the next one, number fifty-seven. A long blond thing with little braids down the sides and swooping bangs. It reminds you of the time your Aunt Bunny took you to the ocean and noticed your twelve-year-old breasts in your white bikini top, calling them "adorable." You guess you'll just have to go home and tell the truth.


Kerrin Piche Serna's short fiction has appeared in The Los Angeles Times and the Portland Review.


Leatherdykeuk said...

Depends how old your parents are, I suppose. Or if it's chemotherapy or self-applied razor.

Madam Z said...

It sounds like it's chemo. So yeah, tell them the truth. True or not, this is a well-told six.