Errands with Mom ended with her new hairdo, and we went to Burger Chef, a rare treat. I was eight and had her to myself, five siblings left home. I hypothesized catsup could be compressed and rupture the packet, saving packet-tearing time. I tightened my fist around the top to force a southerly exit, held the experiment over my fries, and squeezed hard. Catsup exploded past my thumb and zig-zagged all over Mom’s fresh Aqua Net, glasses, face, dress. My guts twisted, and I wondered how death feels. Sudden as the catsup’s eruption, Mom’s glorious guffaw gushed and didn’t stop.
Michael Edward Kitchen has worked as a photographer, journalist, editor, and graphic designer. He writes fiction, mostly supernatural and ghost stories, and humor essays.