Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash
by Christine H. Chen
Because she used to have a researcher job where the managers always questioned her: why did you run this chemical reaction, why did you choose an old procedure, why did you use a new procedure, why did your experiment fail, why did the rats die, why didn’t you think of that, why didn’t you know, why couldn’t you anticipate failure, why couldn’t you count all the variables, why couldn’t you predict the future—she got to hate people and all the snorting noise they make. In the store backroom, she now counts and organizes mushroom lights in colors and sizes ranging from pink to brown for the home décor section, the neon wall lights “Dream” in cursive letters, the sparkly heart-shaped containers of rose-scented candles, a green ceramic gnome holding a lantern, smiling. There are stories behind their muted facade. Where do they come from, whose hands made them, what kind of homes they will go to, which room they’ll live in, where will they end up when their owners no longer love them. She wipes the surface of the glass mushroom lights, brushes off carboard crumbs from the gnome’s clogs. They don’t say a word but thank her by shining brighter.
Christine H. Chen’s fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Ghost Parachute, Wigleaf Top 50 Very Short Fictions, and elsewhere. Find her at www.christinehchen.com and @ChristineHChen1.
