Dalia, Six

“When is Dad getting home?”

“Probably not till later sweetie,” said Momma, wiping peach nectar from Dalia’s chin with the fat palm of her hand.

“How many times do you have to ask that?” said Fritzi, “Seriously!”

“Please finish up with the television and head upstairs now, you have a mountain of homework to do, I’ll let you know when the bad breath salad is ready to eat.”

Dalia watched Frtizti spin around in her chair, rolling her eyes. Fritzi sneered at her as she passed by, stuck her butt out to bump her. She was always doing things like that to provoke her, but Dalia enjoyed the contact somehow; she liked wrestling and biting and being punched, and missed it when Fritzi was gone.

Thanks for checking out this little part of my short story.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!

Gabriel Muoio



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