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by Cheryl Snell
Aunt Jean wasn’t our real aunt, we decided, just the third wife of our blood uncle. We made fun of her, how she dressed, her shoes always matching her purse matching her hat. The perfume reeking of violets, the white shortie gloves. She liked to have us pose by the car when she was dolled up like that. I liked how her purse always dangled so close to my hand. And I began to like it a whole lot more when she left the bag unzipped, the corner of a dollar bill wagging like a tail, begging to be tugged.
Cheryl Snell’s most recent writing has appeared in Maudlin House, Ghost Parachute, Flash Boulevard, Bending Genres, Midway Journal, and is forthcoming in Boudin, On the Seawall and the 2026 Best Microfiction, Dribble Drabble Review, Mad Swirl and Eclectica anthologies.
Photo Credit: Photo by Simon Fanger on Unsplash
