Flash Fiction (Stories under 1000 words)

The Woman in Green

“Come on now, Mr. Poofs. We don’t wanna be late for our beauty appointment,” the woman in green says, pulling her small puffball Pomeranian on his little bright green leash. I see the woman in green everyday, though I’ve never taken the time to learn her name. But every week on Saturday morning, like clockwork she walks down the street taking her dog to their “beauty appointment”. I’ve never been sure who’s beauty appointment it is exactly, or what beauty means to this woman, considering her “unique” style. 

Though I don’t know these things about the woman in green, I have learned many other things about her from her regular visits to my street. For example: I’m pretty sure her favorite color is green, based on the fact that she’s always wearing it. She’s loud, and more than that, proud and confident with who she is. And finally, she loves nothing more than her dog, Mr. Poofs. 

It’s on this particular day though, I notice something different about the woman in green. She still calls that little Pomeranian “Mr. Poofs”, but here’s the thing, it’s not the same dog. 

Mr. Poofs is a small tan Pomeranian, with a sequined green collar and a bubbly personality. This Pomeranian is black, with a dark green collar, and I don’t even know why she told him to come on now, because he hasn’t stopped walking forward. 

I feel almost...infuriated! Where is the real Mr. Poofs? Did he die? And if so, why is she now calling this dog Mr. Poofs? Is she so inconstant that she could just replace the dog she’s had for years?! I mean, what the heck!

I picture the many times the woman in green walked down my street, Mr. Poofs right by her side. All the happy memories of his joyful barks towards me, her gentle cooing and love towards him. She loved him, didn’t she? He was her dog. She couldn’t replace him.

But she did. She totally forgot about the real Mr. Poofs. Cast him aside for another. It makes me sick. Either that or she’s crazy. She doesn’t know the difference between Mr. Poofs and this dog. Mourning Mr. Poofs was too hard to take, so she’s pretending he never left. 

What could it be?

Finally I decide the I should stop, slow down. Don’t just jump to conclusions. Ask her. 

So before she makes it to the end of the street, I run up and shout, “Excuse me, Ma’am!”

She turns to me with a kind smile. “Yes, dear? What can I do for you?”

“Well it’s just, you called this dog you’re walking Mr.Poofs, but I see you walking Mr. Poofs everyday, and this isn’t him. Is it?”

The woman gives me the most gentle and wise look I’ve ever seen her give. “You did it Annabelle,” she says. “You passed the test. I was beginning to think you never would.”

“What? Wait, how do you know my name? I’ve never even talked to you before.”

“Exactly. You never cared enough to. You were always so busy, never taking the time to just slow down, and notice the things around you.”

“What do you mean? I’ve noticed you everyday you walked down my street.”

“Not all of me. You see, everyday I walk down here, I look different. Sometimes I’m white, sometimes black, even Asian. Sometimes I’m blonde, sometimes brunette, the only thing that never changed was my clothes and my dog. But you never cared enough to talk to me, until my dog changed.”

All of a sudden I saw it. Images of the woman in all different races but the same green coat flashed through my head. 

“Why?” I ask.

“That’s my question, Annabelle. Why did you only notice when my dog changed?”

I thought about it. And all of a sudden it was clear.

“I guess I didn’t care what you looked like, just who you were. Even though I didn’t know you, it was your love of the dog that made me like you. When I even began to think you didn’t really love him, it hurt me.”

The woman smiled widely. “Then they were right about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll understand.” 

Then she was just gone, vanished out of thin air. 

The next day, when I come out to sit on the porch to continue knitting a blanket I’ve been making for my niece, I am startled by a basket, and even more so, what it contains. A child, no more than a few months old, lies asleep on my porch. 

I urgently pick up the child, and look around to see who could have left her, but there’s no one around. I look down at the child. She is not a beautiful baby, I now notice. She’s deformed. But all I feel looking down at her..is love. Because I know that one day she can be beautiful, no matter what she looks like.