Frozen

Photo by Dominik on Unsplash

by Liz deBeer

Your list says eggs, bread, bananas, milk, but you’ve stopped at the grocery store’s freezer section, grasping a carton of Breyer’s peach ice cream with real peach pieces, then cradling it in your arms like a frosty doll. You’re blinking back tears and pushing down sobs because your mother’s dead and can’t eat her favorite dessert anymore.

You consider buying it anyway, a cold tribute to Mom.

But you prefer chocolate – not peach. So you scrape a heart shape on the icy lid, return the carton to the shelf, then press both hands against the freezer door, sealing it shut.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative. Her flash has appeared in BULL, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and others. A volunteer reader for Flash Fiction Magazine, her debut chapbook Farewell to Emptiness will be published in April 2026 at ThirtyWest.com. Follow Liz at http://www.ldebeerwriter.com or @lizdebeerwriter.bsky.social

 

Cafeteria Rebel

by Liz deBeer

Davey Tooker – angry that failing his fucking history test got him cut him from fall football – threw a plate of spaghetti, greasy marinara sauce dripping down the cafeteria cement wall. Cracked plate pieces, strings of pasta, clumps of tomatoey ground beef broke apart conversations about Homecoming Dance dates and after-party plans.

In silence, we waited for the principal to drag Davey to the Main Office before resuming our lunch-time banter. But then Davey’s best friend Jon Mitchell flung a handful of brownish-green beans at the same wall, just above the reddish glop, so we rose up in solidarity, chucking rubbery hot dogs, warm chocolate milk, jelly-oozing-peanut-butter sandwiches, and over-cooked Tater Tots at each other while Davey stood with his fist raised in the center of the cafeteria, bits of vanilla pudding smeared on his head like bird droppings on the Statue of Liberty. We roared: We want pizza! We want fried chicken! Never surrender!

Later, Homecoming Dance cancelled, parents asked, What-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you? Don’t-you-know-how-to-act? We stared at the adults like they were idiots, later congratulating each other for our righteous protest. Davey, punished with a week-long suspension, ate stale bread and ketchup alone at home, secretly craving the cafeteria’s spaghetti, garlic bread on the side.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative. Her flash has appeared in BULL, Fictive Dream, Switch and others. She is a volunteer reader at Flash Fiction Magazine. Follow Liz at www.ldebeerwriter.com or https://lizardstale.substack.com or @lizdebeerwriter.bsky.social.

 

Cappy's Crabs

by Liz deBeer

We jump up, knocking over our checker game, the blacks and reds clattering to the floor, in our rush to greet Uncle Cappy. Gripping a bushel of live crabs, their claws snapping, Cappy sends us outside to fetch more food from his car. When we stagger back with unhusked corn, dirty potatoes, and warm beer, Mom’s cursing god-damn Cappy, coming without calling first again. Who’s he think’ll cook the god-damn crabs and husk the god-damn corn and clean the god-damn mess?

And how’d he pay for all this, with no job? Don’t say it’s snatched, not in this house.

Cappy cracks open a brew, hands one to Mom, who refuses it, waiting for his answer, not a damn beer. The snaking scar on his forearm glistens in the dim overhead light as he gulps down a swig and swallows a burp. Mom once told us Cappy’s scar was from a cooking accident, hoping we’d never find out about his fights and heists, worried we’ll mimic his no-good path.

“It’s like this, Sis.” Cappy wipes his damp lip with a calloused thumb.

Rocking on her heels, Mom rolls her eyes, then leans on the kitchen counter stained from a previous renter.

“I bet on the Bisons. Wild guess: Bisons, 24. Cougars, 14. Bet money I didn’t have­—” Mom starts in, but he talks louder, drowning out her curses. “Sis, I hit it.”

We watch Mom’s face morph, processing first the illegal betting on high school sports with her clenched jaws and shaking head. Then blowing out air, sputtering, “Bisons won? Ten points! We need a win ‘round here.”

Cappy and Mom clink beers, “To the Bisons!” He pulls out two dented stockpots, filling them with water while we husk the corn, golden silk strands dropping to the floor like we’ve both morphed into Rumpelstiltskin. Forgetting the irresponsible gambling, Mom balances on a wobbly stool, listening to Cappy recount the game as the crabs clack-clack-clack, clambering to the basket’s rim, pulling each other down in their desperate attempt to escape.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative. Her flash has appeared in BULL, Fictive Dream, Switch and others. She is a volunteer reader at Flash Fiction Magazine. Follow Liz at www.ldebeerwriter.com or https://lizardstale.substack.com or @lizdebeerwriter.bsky.social.