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Short Story-Cold Turkey

Today’s short story comes to you with a little help from my friends. A few weeks ago, I posted a story starter and asked my readers to contribute the next line or few lines. Here is the resulting story. I hope you enjoy it.

A big THANK YOU to Tina, Olivia, and Jerri for playing along.


Cold Turkey

Dalyn flipped on the kitchen light. She shuffled toward the refrigerator and pulled the door open, hoping there was some milk left. There wasn’t of course. Tad always drank it all and never bothered to go buy more. She closed the door and stood looking around the kitchen as if a gallon of milk would instantly appear. She sighed and started opening and closing the cabinet doors, but nothing seemed as appetizing as a bowl of fruit loops.

Her disappointment quickly turned to irritation, and the more she thought about it, anger. Realizing she had no other choice, Dalyn went back upstairs where Tad was peacefully sleeping. For a moment, she thought about how crazy her actions seemed and she started back down the steps. Suddenly, she turned on her heel and charged into the bedroom where Tad lay, snoring obnoxiously. She stood in the doorway, thinking of a way to ruin his sleep as he had ruined her quest for a bowl of fruit loops. While stood there with her rage festering, Tad stirred and looked rather confused.

“Why are you standing there?” He asked weary eyed.

Dalyn gently smiled and simply said hello before she flipped on the overhead light and yanked the covers off him, rolling him into the floor.

“You asshole! I’m done!” She shouted.

She awoke in a cold sweat. What a nightmare. Fruit Loops, high fructose corn syrup. She was so glad she had abolished such atrocities from her diet. But not the milk, not the dairy. They say dreams can offer warnings. She must abolish milk as well. But, how could she live without chai lattes? Cold turkey was the only way. Turkey, there is something she hadn’t thought about in years. She had conquered meats. She could do dairy as well. She snuggled back into the pillow.

The next thing she felt was a wet kiss on her cheek. Her husband was leaving for work. “Do you need me to pick up anything from the store on my way home?”

“No, nothing.”

“Are you sure. I drank the last of the milk yesterday.”

“No, nothing.”

Dylan sunk back beneath the covers, telling herself the first twenty-four hours are the hardest.

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About Marsha Blevins, Author

Marsha Blevins lives in West Virginia with her boyfriend and six fur-children. She earned her B.A. in English with a concentration on writing from Marshall University. Two of her short stories and several poems were published in the university’s literary magazine, Et Cetera. She is an active member of the writing group Wicked Wordsmiths of the West and WV Writers. Follow her at www.marbleswords.com on Facebook at www.facebook.com/marbleswords, on Twitter @marbleswords.

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