The neatly-stacked cans of “Ida’s Meal-In-A-Minute Homemade Chicken Tenders and Rice,” which were neither Ida’s nor homemade but did, in fact, heat up in one minute, collapsed from the rush of the oncoming steel, loudly crashing onto the tile; aluminum road kill as far as the eye could see.
Carrie sunk to the floor, releasing a torrent of tears as twin toddlers Joseph and James, still strapped into the offending shopping cart, looked on in shock, silent for the first time that day, and busy shoppers stepped around her, avoiding eye-contact lest they, too, be sucked into her vortex of hell.
Her thumb still throbbed from the deep slice it had taken cutting up fruit for the kids’ breakfast that morning, and then backing out of the driveway while trying to get Joseph to release his death grip on James’ hair in the rear seat, she had stepped on the gas instead of the brake, shooting across the street, over the curb and into her neighbor’s newly-sod front lawn.
The last thing Carrie recalled before awakening in the psych ward was looking up at an orthodonically-challenged, trembling teenage boy with a name tag that read “Hi-I’m-Bobby-Have-A-Nice-Day” and the booming voice from the in-store sound system:
“Clean-up on aisle seven.”
From the Five Sentence Fiction prompt “accident.”