Branflake Police
Branflake Police
The knock on the door wasn’t so much a knock as it was a clipped click. A sound like a cereal flake sighing on its last breath. Margaret paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, a single bran-flake trembling on the curved edge; as if considering the jump. Another click. She opened the door.
There were two of them. Dressed in beige. Not trench-coat beige, not fashion beige, but the kind of beige your eyes forget. One had a clipboard. The other had a small clear evidence bag with a single bran-flake in it.
“Good morning,” said Clipboard. “We’ve had a report,” said Bag.
Margaret blinked. “A report?” Clipboard nodded. “Routine check. Bran-flake consumption irregularities in the neighbourhood.” Bag leaned in. “Yours appear... unorthodox.” Margaret looked back at her table. A bowl. Half milk, half flakes. A reasonable swirl. No bananas. No sugar. She’d been careful. She knew. “I— I eat them how they come.”
“Therein lies the issue, the problem,” said Clipboard, flipping to a page with what looked like a diagram. “Page 47, subsection F. Bran-flakes must be consumed with one of the following: sliced fruit, drizzle of honey, or spiritual remorse.”
Margaret blinked. “I didn’t realise spiritual remorse was an option.” “It's the most popular in winter,” Bag said, placing the evidence bag on her doormat like a warning.
A gull screamed overhead. Or maybe it was her neighbour, Janice, who hadn’t been seen since switching to granola.
“You’ll be issued a citation,” Clipboard continued, making a little tick with his pen. “And a mandatory workshop. 'Creative Compliance in Fibre Intake'. It’s quite popular. There’s a trust exercise involving raisins.”
They turned and left; beige backs against the grey of the morning. The evidence bag glinted, crunchy and sad. Margaret shut the door, sat down, and stared into her bowl.
The bran-flake had fallen from the spoon.
It floated; innocently. She picked up the spoon again. This time, she sighed and wept just a little as she resumed eating; just in case!…
