“Kill it, Daddy.”
He looked at his little girl, stiff and wide-eyed on the hotel room cot, with the covers pulled up just below her eyes. The contours of her nose, mouth, and chin under the taut sheet gave her face a shrink-wrapped look.
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![By Toby Hudson (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL], via Wikimedia Commons](https://i0.wp.com/www.greylockglass.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/cantaloupesjpg.jpg?resize=150%2C150&ssl=1)
![By Toby Hudson (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL], via Wikimedia Commons](https://i0.wp.com/www.greylockglass.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/09/cantaloupesjpg.jpg?fit=880%2C290&ssl=1)
by Jason Velázquez
He remembered that she liked cantaloupe. Correction: he remembered that she loved cantaloupe. She told him that if he were ever to be exiled to a desert island and only given three food choices for the rest of his life, he should choose turkey, kale, and cantaloupe because they provided (in combination) all
flash fiction by Sheila Velazquez
Once a day, around noon, an old white Ford van pulls into the alley and parks in the lot of the apartment buildings.
Jerry serves between forty-five and sixty meals a day. He calls his mobile ministry “Java for Jesus,” and although he is not connected to any particular religion, Jerry does
