Tamales
Flash Fiction Friday with Scoot
Prompts for 19 September 2025 from
Write about an act of heroism
uncertain standing
“it doesn’t smell good”
A character who is just passing through
Image from Jim Winstead on Flickr; CC BY 2.0
"It doesn't smell good." Jericho held his nose as he reached for the bag Ancho held out.
"You need a new olfactory nerve, güey. Pedro's abue is famous for this recipe." Ancho laughed at Jericho's face, scrunched in distaste and a little bit green.
"Well, since we all went to her funeral last year—que Dio la tenga en su gloria— I doubt this is her actual recipe."
Jericho crossed himself at the memory of his friend's grandmother. Abue, as everyone called her, was much beloved among the young men who passed in and out of her little home on the edge of the desert. She cooked hearty meals for whomever arrived before supper, and told stories of the old country to those whose families had neglected to pass on. She was determined to ensure that the young men, whom she always called gamberros, would remember and protect their culture and heritage.
Ancho withdrew the bag of odiferous tamales. "Well, if you don't want them, that's just more for me." He sat on the bench and pulled out a steaming foil-wrapped husk, supposedly filled with Abue's famous masa and pork. The stench was overwhelming. These were definitely not what either gamberro remembered from Abue's cocina. Uncertain, but determined to stand by his opinion of the food, Ancho put a fork in the tamale filling.
Jericho watched with horror as Ancho started to lift the fork. "He can't be serious," he thought. "That necio is going to kill himself one day."
Jericho felt a presence beside him. For a moment he was back in Abue's cocina, listening to her hum an old Mexican folk song as she folded the masa and meat into the corn husks. The room was warm and steamy, smelling of chiles and pork, with a hint of cumin in the air. Abue looked directly at him, warning in her eyes.
As quickly as the presence appeared, it vanished, leaving Jericho alone with Ancho and his foul-smelling lunch. Before Ancho put the forkful in his mouth, Jericho leapt forward, snatched the tamales with their bag, hurling them into a nearby trashcan.
"Hey!" Ancho protested, but looked slightly relieved that he didn't have to follow through on proving his assertion about the food was right.
Jericho playfully punched Ancho's shoulder. "¡Qué güey estás! Come on, let's get some Taco Bell instead." As they left the park, Jericho again caught a momentary whiff of cumin, and he knew Abue was shaking her head at him, smiling anyway.
High above, the circling buzzards drifted away.
Flash Fiction Friday ⏱
Flash Fiction Prompts and Highlights
Donations are always received with gratitude at Venmo. These gifts go to new resource books and the last of the student loans for a PhD that gave me research skills, but no long-term employment.
This was a great use of the “act of heroism” prompt—it made me smile that Jericho’s big rescue was saving his friend from bad tamales. What struck me most was the sense of Abue’s presence, almost like she was still protecting her “gamberros” even after death. The uncertain standing between memory and haunting really gave the story weight.
Funny how food stories carry more than just taste—they carry warnings, history, and love.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how small acts, the ones that don’t look like heroism on the surface, shape the way we remember people. Reading this reminded me why I write about narrative and how stories regulate emotions. If you’re curious, I’ve been digging into this on my Substack Pedro Reads a Page
Bell Taco rings. tamales corn husks fast food sustains, but odiferous? Me casa tu cas, come on down. Food for thought. Buzzards circle then fly away. Give me a burrito any day. Cannot replace homemade tamales. Your story makes me hungry. Like the names, character's banter. A touch of Brujo's charm.