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Louella Lester
Unnatural Migration
When Mom flew off with the Canada geese you made me promise that we would never leave one another. Ever. I wanted to protect you, even though you were an irritating baby sister who I had to bribe with candy and pop, so I could hang out with my friends. If I was away too long I’d find you on the porch when I got home, tears running your cheeks while you asked about Mom.
Mom showed up a couple times a year when she flew through heading north or south. She knew Dad kept a shotgun in the closet by the door, so she’d call from a payphone to make sure he was out. Then she’d honk from the road, just in case. We would run out, but you would always slow down when we reached the ditch. Pretend you were watching the ducks swimming in and out of the big culvert. Made Mom get out of the car, waddle over to corral you, and then shoo us both toward the car.
She’d push us into the back seat and give us gifts, t-shirts, often the wrong size, stuffed in crumpled paper bags, pretending they were brand-new, but they didn’t have labels and early on you figured out they were from the charity shop one town over.
She’d drive us to Nelly’s Diner, park at the back, and watch us eat grilled cheese sandwiches, while she nibbled away at a bowl of greens, until you pointed out the window toward the big loose ball of dust rolling like a tumbleweed down the gravel road at speed. “Mom look, I bet that’s Dad coming to find us.” Then Mom would peck our cheeks, say her goodbyes, wing it through the kitchen and out the backdoor, while I refused to let you squirm out of the booth to follow.
Louella Lester is a writer/photographer in Winnipeg, Canada, author of Glass Bricks (At Bay Press 2021), contributing editor at NFFR, and is included in Best Microfiction 2024 & 2026. Her writing/photos appear in variety of journals and anthologies. http://louellalesterblog.
Hattie Logan
. . . There I was alone in the porters lodge, halfway through my morning coffee, black no sugar, when my walkie-talkie crackled into life.
It’s Bruce, the gardener “Mike, are you there? Stella’s just left her hideaway and is heading towards you” . . .
Cheryl Snell
Follow your room-mate and her boyfriend, but not so close that either one notices. Think shadow. Think Pink Panther. Plop down in the middle seat of three in the theater. Pretend you don’t hear your room-mate say “Do you mind?” Back at the apartment tell her you want to switch bedrooms. “I need the room with the door.” Because migraines.
Tom Ball
I, Shelly, said to Amos, “We live in a nightmare amusement park World, here on Moon Miranda!” He replied, “How did we ever come to this?” I said, “In my case, I was lured by the potential thrills of continuous action.” He said, “Me, too. And it’s a new World, so there were no ratings to go by.” I said, “There must be some way we can escape!” He said
Noel King
In the photo-booth Eva gets self conscious, blinking when the flash pops. “It’s not me,” she screams out loud as the photo pops out.
George Vincent
The boy was lost and he went to the beach on his own.
He walked along the beach and he was scared of everything: of himself, of the sand and the sun and sea. He walked with his head down.
Sophie Thompson
There are few sounds sadder than the plinky-plonk of Greensleeves from a passing ice cream van. Mickey Mouse’s face plastered on its arse, rainwater rivulets streaking down his grimy cheeks.
Ervin Brown for Day three of our Invisible and Visible Disabilities feature and for the last day of Autism Acceptance month
I ran to the gym instructor, a tall man. He had a bumpkin’s voice and wore a jersey like he played football. He leaned against the school wall with his buddies. I tugged at his arm and pointed at the boy who wouldn’t leave me alone, but he waved me off. This was not the first time I had been bullied for my autism.
I walked past the playground into a wooded area, trekking along the fence line until I reached the opposite end of the schoolyard. This spot is where the yard spilled into the main road. I took one step off the grass and felt a rainbow of delight explode from my chest. I was no longer on school property.
Alison Wassell
Evelyn Battersby was a difficult woman to please, an easy one to disappoint. When her children brought their gifts on silver salvers she would sniff, wrinkle her nose, send them back to the kitchen.
Kayleigh Kitt
Henry leafed through the applications on his desk, sighed, picking up the first one.
Application no. 56/438/b
Activity/Description: Cheese rolling. A large rinded cheese placed at the top of a hill. . .