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“Blueberry Muffins and a Lone Star Surprise” is a piece of short flash fiction: emotionally resonant, tightly written, and charming. It blends humor and heart with precision, and it leaves the reader smiling—and maybe craving a muffin.

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 “Blueberry Muffins and a Lone Star Surprise”

  By Harry Arabian

A raw February wind chased me out of Macy’s, my cheeks pink from the cold and my heart slightly deflated. The winter clearance rack had nothing but stretched sweaters and one boot missing its mate. There was no luck today. But I wasn’t leaving empty-handed—a six-pack of blueberry muffins, still warm from the bakery down the street, nestled like treasure in my tote. Those muffins never disappointed.

Tugging my coat tighter, I turned onto Tremont Street, headed toward the Park Street T station. Boston’s bricks still shimmered from last night’s sleet, and the Common across the way looked like a postcard from somewhere both frozen and elegant.

That was when I heard them.

A raucous burst of laughter cut through the street noise. A group of folks in gallon-sized cowboy hats—real ten-gallon Texans—huddled near the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument, boots crunching salt and snow. Their accents curled like smoke around familiar words, twangy and proud.

“Tourists,” I muttered. “Probably lost on the Freedom Trail.”

With a smirk, I tossed a casual, “Long way from the Lone Star State,” as I passed.

One of them, a chubby man with a thick black beard and a Stetson the size of a satellite dish, turned to me with an amused glint in his eyes. “I’m used to being heckled—usually on stage, though.”

I paused mid-step, squinting. The voice... the beard... wait a minute.

“Hold on,” I said. “No way. You’re Mo Amer. Mo Amer from Netflix?”

He gave a mock bow. “Guilty as charged.”

“I knew I recognized that face,” I said, practically bouncing in place. “I watched all of Season One and just started Season Two—though I’ll admit, I’m a little lost with the Mexico storyline.”

“Don’t worry,” Mo laughed. “I’m a little lost in Mexico too. Even the writers needed a map.”

The group chuckled. Mo eyed the muffin box like it was an offering.

He grinned and nudged one of his friends. “Look here, paparazzi everywhere. We can’t even take a walk in Boston without running into a true fan.” He pointed at my muffins. “This guy’s trying to bribe his way into The Wilbur Theatre. Blueberry muffins? That’s dedication.”

“Hey,” I said, holding up the box. “I might not be angling for tickets, but I don’t mind sharing. You’ve earned one just for making me laugh during the lockdown. Back then, laughter felt like rations. And thanks to you, I now judge all hummus platters based on how close someone’s pita gets to my side.”

Mo laughed, hearty and real. “That’s the spirit. Halal meat, olive oil, and mutual respect at the hummus line—it’s basically a blueprint for world peace.”

As the light turned green, he gave a quick wave. “Catch the show if you can. And keep the muffins coming.”

I watched them disappear into the crowd, my day suddenly brighter than any sale Macy’s could offer. Turns out, disappointment sometimes clears the way for something better. And hey—warm muffins don’t hurt.