by Rebecca Buller
My temper flares like a Texas wildfire, just as my mother pours dishsoap into the sink. She shakes her head, muttering, "Just like your daddy, lose your head if it wasn't screwed on." An insult? Maybe, but I don't wish to debate with her at this early an hour. I retrieve a stale donut from the cookie jar decorated with roosters and leave the house, awaiting the customary slam of the front door before stomping down the porch steps like a petulant child. My day's already ruined, and it's only eight a.m.
Rebecca Buller is currently training to become a professional fiction writer. She lives in Oklahoma.