Bread. The baker cuts chunks from the amoeba dough that’s spreading across the counter. It is sticky in his hands, protesting against its separation onto the kneading board. By the till there’s a display of loaves, shiny like glazed pots. I grip the largest and pass it to the assistant who swaddles it in tissue. I carry the bread like a babe in my arms, its heat warming my belly and I walk back home.
This 75-word story was published by Paragraph Planet 22 May 2012
the writer is a lonely hunter 
certainly flash fiction makes you think of every image. I like it very much. C
Thanks for visiting, Carol
mmmm i could smell it. Breakfast time! (here in UK)
Toast!
well done Gail, published twice !
Good to hear from you Regina! Exams over?
So vivid! – lovely description – I could see it all playing out, but it’s more than that though; I definitely detect an undertone of sadness.
Glad you picked up on that Natalie – thanks for commenting
There’s something soothing about freshly baked bread, I think.
The opening felt a bit sinister, cutting into the living thing and preparing it to be burned to death. Nice one.