Bag of Lies

Flash Fiction

A manicured hand slams a bag of colorful crystals onto a glass countertop, stirring the shadow behind the counter. A wrinkly face pokes through the curtain of smoke, writhing from incense sticks, staring back at the face that belongs to those intrusive hands.

“Hello. I’d like a refund,” says the young woman, her dirty blonde hanging limply to her shoulders, the last sparkle of light fading from her grey-blue eyes. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, crossing her arms, hoping to be taken seriously. She’s tall and willowy, unlike the owner of the shop who stands opposite her, petite and round, like a soft pillow. They both wear chunky stone jewelry — the type you see anthropologists wearing as they hang out in trees, snooping on other cultures — and their outfits have that air of boho glam. Long tunics, a few sequins, neutral colors. As if any minute a primal drum will start beating and they’ll have to follow it into the wildflowers.

“And what seems to be the problem?” the middle-aged woman asks, running a hand through her long, wiry grey-black hair.

“They don’t work. That’s the problem.”

“Are you sure it’s the crystals that don’t work…”

“Eileen.”

“Are you sure it’s the crystals that don’t work, Eileen?”