Rotting Fruit

Image credit: From the series Anonymous by Argentinian photographer, Sofía López Mañán…/16/sofia-lopez-manan-anonym…/

From the series Anonymous by Argentinian photographer, Sofía López Mañán…/16/sofia-lopez-manan-anonym…/

Like rotting fruit she hung from the branches of the tree. Arms aching, tear-stained face, knees scraped.

How long had she hung there? She had run, the gang of kids behind her, laughing, taunting, cruel adult-child voices rising in derision.

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The Tooth Fairy

Glimmer waited till the room was perfectly still, dark as pitch, and she could hear the child breathing steadily. Wings beating rapidly in a continuing figure of eight, an infinity of flapping, she hovered above the sleeping child.

She’d once seen a hummingbird hovering for nectar at a honeysuckle, body perfectly still, wings beating furiously, and she had felt a real kinship. The hummingbird, however, had stuck its tongue out at her, pulled a face, and flown of guffawing to itself.

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Gone Troppo

Jack set off for the deli and his paper. It was always the same at this time of year; the air, pregnant with moisture, waiting for her waters to break, ankles swollen, and lumbering with each day.

Everywhere he went, Jack ran into yet another pressure-cooked person, red-faced, puffing, sweating like they’d just come out of a sauna. Jack had lived in this small town all his life, and the build up, just before the wet season, always led to foolishness.

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Thin Blue Line


She sat at the laminate table, head in her hands, completely spent. She had cried a lifetime’s quota of tears and there was no moisture left in her. She had become a desert of emotions, devoid of even the ability to smile wanly at her friends’ efforts to amuse her.

The trajectory of her life, this yawning chasm of mediocrity, each day of drudgery more laboured than the next, had drained the colour from her personality and her complexion.

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Water Wings

For as long as she could remember Miriam had been “slowpoke”. The early polio, and later callipers on her legs had given her an awkward gait. She had tried to fit in with the others, waddling eagerly behind the tumbling, giggling group of friends.

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First Day Blues

The key turns smoothly in the lock. She listens for the familiar click as the bolt draws back.

Her hand reaches for the knob. A gentle turn and push. The door opens on the quiet dark beyond.

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Birds of a feather

Tara massaged her craniofacial hinge with two feathers from her left wing in small circular movements. It was already daylight, she was tired and this was turning into a long and sleepless day.

“So … you’re an owl?”  The Twenty-eight was confused.

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I can see the world wobbling and waving in front of me as I lie flat and still on my stomach. It’s so hot that even the tar from the road is losing water.

My head feels light and my breath comes in short bursts.

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Welcome to the club

“Oh god. Ohgod-ohgod-ohgod-ohgod.”

A thick ooze of rich scarlet stained her knickers. Sunita sat on the toilet with her head in her hands, knickers around her knees, nose dripping, tears streaming down her cheeks, not knowing what to do, and terrified of telling Mummy. She winced and clenched her fists as another cramp ripped through her.

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Winter Wonderland

Mix stretched his arms skyward, extending each vertebra. He opened his lips into a round flat O, scrunched up his eyes, and yawned the yawn of the bone-weary. It had been a very long night.

He looked around pleased with himself. The world was elegant, blanketed in her new downy white coat, wearing her finest crystals, ready for the grand Winter ball.

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