February 23 Monthly Micro Shortlist

Vote for your favourite from these fab stories to win the surprise People’s Prize. Our judging team are busy re-reading to choose the winners of the cash prizes. Voting is open until 23.59 (UK time) on 27th February 2023. Results will be announced on 28th. Good luck everyone!


Going Round In Circles

Royal Albert Hall.

Our eyes meet over intermission drinks. I ask if you’re enjoying Mahler. 

Radcliffe Camera. 

I surprise you in the library, take you to the pub. My jokes make your cheeks dimple. Kissing on the riverbank, you taste of gin.

My dome tent. 

Our first time. Exhausted from hiking, it’s clumsy, hurried. We cuddle in my sleeping bag, listening to owls, ignoring the wet patch.

The hotel jacuzzi. 

On our only holiday: our last kiss.

Before you tell me about him.

O2 Arena. 

Dancing wildly, our hips collide. I ask if she’s enjoying Elton. 

She’s never been camping.


The Spiral Game

You stand in the middle as they march around you, chanting. Between your fingers there’s a swirl of skinned knees, ankle socks, pink jelly sandals stomping on concrete.

They spin you. Staggering, you wait for black spots in your eyes. A headrush. Maybe tears.

Some girls had fainted, others claimed they saw the devil himself. But whenever it’s your turn, you feel nothing.

You choke and buckle, fall backwards into arms and a flurry of questions. For a moment, you’re the centre of everything.

The bell sends you scuttling back to class. Tomorrow you’ll try again, hoping to be possessed.


What A Difference A Week Makes

Today.

I’m leaving.

You can’t. The trains are on strike.

I’ll walk.

Your legs are in plaster. 

I’ve got my wheelchair.

Have you seen the snow drifts?

Yesterday.

It’s not working.

Your wheelchair? You had it fixed…

No, us.

Give it a chance. It’s only been…

Too long. 

Last Friday.

Remember when we first met?

How could I forget?

It feels like yesterday.

It was yesterday.

True, but… you know what I mean.

No.

Last Thursday.

Sorry

Watch where you’re going.

I said I’m…

Don’t be sorry. Be careful.

It’s not working.

Us?

The wheelchair. There is no us yet.


The Lost Art Of Line Marking

Jim can name every road he’s put his mark on, if you buy him a pint. Technical terms trip off his tongue. He’ll tell you about surface friction, reflectivity, thermoplastics. It’s art, he says, and science, maybe even magic.

The day Jim gets his marching orders you buy him a whiskey chaser.  He says he’s been painting in circles, arriving back where he started, with nothing to show for it.

The next morning, there’s a goodbye message on the tarmac, and his high-viz jacket neatly folded inside six perfect hoops. You hope he’s still working his magic, wherever he’s gone.


My Dad Died One Hundred Times

My dad died ninety-nine times, and he always came back. I liked to imagine, each time, that he was renewing. But each time he died, less of him came back.

Helping him with his shoes – death. Spooning soup into his mouth – death. Catching him in the corridor with no trousers on – death. Cleaning up his piss – death. Every time he forgot my name – excruciating death.

When one hundred came I knew he wasn’t coming back, but I held his hand, kissed him goodbye. Maybe in some magical place we will never see, he will begin again, but this time whole. 


She’s Counting on Leaving

One hundred metres to the bus stop, three hundred pennies in a see-through purse, one livid sky threatening to unload, ten reasons not to run, two crows brooding in gossip’s gloves, three tumbling tower blocks keeping watch with crushing disdain.

Between then and now, an endless ochre spiral by an urban artist unknown- gathering the trash bags of the flirty, one girl from the council estate, one chipped, chewed nail, one chance to get out, one inherited mistake.

She folds the poem into the shape of a blameless child, pulls at its sticky hand with impatience and crosses the square.


Alternative Point of View

At playtime on the first day of a new term most girls from her class went straight to the freshly painted hopscotch, but not Shelley, she followed the path of the new yellow spiral. Each time she reached the centre she did an elaborate twirl, walked directly back to the beginning, and started again. There was a rhythm to each step like a silent dance. Miss Buckle stared out the first-floor window noisily stirring the spoon in her coffee. From this angle the markings resembled a vinyl record. Shelley was the needle in the groove picking up an unheard melody.


An Andalucía Widow

Late September, amidst a precipitation of gold and russet leaves, he’d passed away.

She mourned the regulation seven years, sweeping her home of memories, whilst each month unborn children shrivelled in her womb.

The new bridegroom arrived one spring morning, sun filtering through the smattering of light green foliage, his face reflecting anticipation.

                                                                          ***

Outside the day is apple blossom bright as she fights a fog of apprehension; a spider’s web of trepidation tightening, pulling delicate, sensitive strands into rigid filaments. A tentative knock, an anxious smile, her father offers his arm as they walk towards the singing church bells.


What Happens When You Peel An Onion

My outer shell disintegrates at your touch, to flake across the floor.

Exposed veins of pearl white map our soiled history. 

Layer by layer you un-peel me… you’re embarrassing… you laugh too loudly… you were flirting again…

Your words cut. The tears begin.

Concentric circles of us… round and round we go.

But today we get to the heart of it all.

It pulses with its own roots… a seed… poisonous and elongated. A kernel of truth wrapped in bitter skins.

You react to me, but now it is me who has become intolerant.

…I hope I leave an aftertaste.


The Education Of Miriam Purdy

Miriam slammed her front door in the hedge-witch’s face so all summer a concentric pollen curse glowed on her path. The wildflower verges thrummed with bees but Miriam’s plants drooped, silent. Even brambles failed to fruit in her garden. On the first day of winter Miriam slammed her door again and followed cadmium scent trails into the bare woods.

‘I’ve come to learn another way,’ she told the hedge-witch. 

‘Are you sure?’

Miriam nodded. The witch opened her mouth. A blanket of bees swarmed from her throat, wild and dark, and settled on Miriam.

And so began the first lesson.



Please vote using the form below. If you have any problems with the form, you can also vote via this link: https://form.responster.com/evWRkZ

Final Quarterly Flash Shortlist

Well done again to all the writers who made the longlist for the final ever round of this contest. And congratulations to the 10 shortlisted writers! No telling which is yours though as our judge, Reshma Ruia, will be reading anonymously.

Shortlisted Stories

  1. All the Cunning Weapons of a Ninja
  2. Decluttering the Kitchen Cupboard
  3. How To Make An Omelette
  4. In captivity
  5. Nesting
  6. Tell It To Me Again
  7. The Trouble With My Sister
  8. When the teacher talked about rape and you laughed
  9. Wilf and Jesus
  10. Wings

We’ll be back with the results as soon as we can! Good luck everyone!

The 2022 RW Prize Winners

We are so excited to bring you the results of the final RW Prize and the details of the stories and writers that will be published in our final print and ebook anthology later this year. We loved running this prize over the past seven years and thank everyone that sent us a story – we have read so many fantastic ones and had the privilege of publishing amazingly talented writers. Many thanks to our judges this year who made that final difficult decision for us!

Micro Fiction Prize Results – Judge: Laura Besley

The Shortlist

  • A Woman Showed up at a Mario Kart Convention in a Wedding Dress by Rae Theodore
  • Another Man’s Treasure by Martha Lane
  • Breadcrumbs by Susan Wigmore
  • Buddleia Song by Katie Holloway
  • Catch by Letty Butler
  • Manchester Fishing by Helen Kennedy
  • Postcard From Portugal by Emily Macdonald
  • Something Floral by Jill Sexton
  • Three Questions, One Answer by Claire Schön
  • Watermark by Letty Butler

Judge’s Report

Firstly, I would like to congratulate all the writers who have stories on this list and thank them, as well as Amanda, for letting me read them – it has been an absolute pleasure.  

Short fiction doesn’t come with a blurb. When you start reading, you have no idea what you’re getting. For me that’s one of the most exciting things – the possibilities are endless. But what does that mean for the writer? An awful lot has to be achieved in a very short space.  

When I first read these stories, I read them as a reader – open to anything and everything. Most of all I wanted to feel something. Surprise, happiness, loss, regret. Anything. Everything. Just make me feel something. I was drawn in by great titles, excellent first lines, evocative language, playful forms. Each and every one of these stories made me feel something and was deserving of being on this list.  

‘Every word counts’ is often cited when referring to short fiction, especially micro fiction. It  seems old hat, but it’s true. The title, the opening line, every unusual pairing; sense of character and place; story development – all of this needs to be conveyed with very few words in which to convey it.  

Judging any art form is hard. Despite its importance as a reader, it’s not enough as a judge to say ‘I felt something’. I read the stories again. And again. Over and over. In my head, out loud, letting the words work their magic. On a final reading, I analysed every detail of every story to determine which ones were, in my opinion, the best blend of words to create a magical micro fiction.       

1st Prize Winner: Catch by Letty Butler

This story has an exhilarating opening line – containing characters, setting and dilemma – which completely sucked me in and like an octopus wrapping its tentacles around me, the story never ceased its grip. There is great use of vocabulary: strong verbs like ‘speared’ and ‘hunched’ and a peppering of alliteration with ‘turbulent and tangled’. The whole piece has a dream-like quality to it, as well as a physical dream, and ends with that pitch-perfect off kilter sentence.    

2nd Prize Winner: Breadcrumbs by Susan Wigmore

As with all good titles, Breadcrumbs is an integral part of the story – informing readers we have to piece together the plot. The language in this story is particularly evocative and unusual. Among others, I love ‘the moon is loud’ and ‘pools of light […] like stepping stones’ and ‘the buttery smell of his hair’. 

3rd Prize Winner: Manchester Fishing by Helen Kennedy

There is such a strong sense of place in this story. There are the physical places, the river Irwell and talk of the family house, but also those intangible ‘places’, such as the past, the future, and moving on. Water is a theme throughout; its vocabulary providing not only depth to the narrative, but a strong sense of cohesion.  


Flash Fiction Prize Results – Judge: Tom O’Brien

The Shortlist

  • A Perfect Day for Banana Pudding by Finnian Burnett
  • Beach Pick-Up by Linda Collins
  • Find Shelter by JP Relph
  • I Never Intended to Visit the Circus by Katie Holloway
  • O Sole Mio by Lesley Bungay
  • Swan Song by Letty Butler
  • The Language of Dying Crows by Maria Thomas
  • The Lightship by Emma Phillips
  • The Matter with Shapes by Sharon Boyle
  • The Sand Between her Toes by Helen Reay

Judge’s Report

It was a pleasure to read such a powerful set of flash pieces. The form is clearly in rude health. What was less of a pleasure was to choose some above others for the top three, since I was spoiled for choice. There are elements from all the stories that still ring with me: crows exploding from chimneys from one is not an image that’s easy to forget, nor is the feeling evoked by those ’30 steps from the lighthouse to the shore’ in another. There’s heartache in a line like ‘your head leaves a hollowed-out shape on the pillow’ or meeting a character who’s ‘perfected the art of applying pancake makeup over bruises’ in a cookery tale or ‘”My sunshine’ he called her, even as her light faded” in an allotment. Nor was it easy to leave behind the chill of a character who sees themselves as ‘hard and godless’, much less the sheer humanity of ‘the blistering hope of reuniting with the pigtailed child in a crumpled photograph.’

But in the end, with a reminder of how subjective any judgement is, I did have to choose, so my top three are…

1st Prize Winner: I Never Intended to Visit the Circus by Katie Holloway

I Never Intended to Visit the Circus makes a powerful first impression, then goes above and beyond that. It both moves at the narrative level and is moving, emotionally. The story displays the technical daring flash does so well. Its use of ‘It’s like…’ to start lines over and over, as the voice starts and restarts, echoes the grappling with big ideas. But the writer never lets technique overpower the heart in the story. The narrator becomes more self-aware with every line, while the reader grows more aware of a world that expands darkly with each new image until there’s so much forward motion that we’re caught off balance, just as they are, with a twist and revelation before that sour sweet ending. This is flash fiction at its best.

2nd Prize Winner: The Lightship by Emma Phillips

The Lightship is a world building tour de force with a keenly felt point of view that went straight to my heart. I wanted to protect this fresh voice from the reality they are trying so hard to deny. Sadly, they are cursed with the insight to know nothing is as it should be. They survive in a mined sea where those who should protect them ‘launch new lies into new rooms’ rather than take responsibility. The story ends with a prayer, one I found myself joining in, so that it might let in hope.

3rd Prize Winner: Swan Song by Letty Butler

Swan Song is wonderfully creepy and sinister but unpeels layers of loneliness that make it tender and aching at the same time. The deceptive flatness to the voice adds to the off-kilter horror movie atmosphere, as do flashes of dark humour, such as the drawing of an eye, that unnerves the ‘wrong’ person.


Short Story Prize Results – Judge: Sarah Schofield

The Shortlist

  • A Different Route to the Same Place by Debbi Voisey
  • Even the Silence by Keren Heenan
  • Far Cry From Edgar by Jennifer McMahon
  • Hero of Electrification by Chris Cottom
  • Jane and Autumn by Alison Sanders
  • Rachel’s Mother by Melissa Mitcheson
  • Salt Colonies by Shrutidhora P Mohor
  • Superheroes and the World Turned Upside Down by Susan Wigmore
  • Tat by Alison Wassell
  • The Ocean Is a Desert by Susan Swan

Judge’s Report

It has been a privilege and a delight to read the shortlisted stories for this short story category. Many thanks to Amanda and the team at Retreat West for inviting me to judge – a wonderfully difficult task that I have thoroughly enjoyed.  

For me, the best short stories are living, breathing things – elusive and defiant of neat or easy categorisation. What I mean by this is they don’t always go or move how you expect them to but, when you become immersed in one, they feel right, the surprises seem retrospectively inevitable and satisfying. This is why I love the form, perhaps why writers and readers continue to come back to them.  

I was genuinely captivated and moved by every single one of the ten shortlisted stories for a host of different reasons. But most of all because it is clear that each writer has rejected the desire to tame but allowed their story to move naturally, in its own habitat. What caught my eye in the stories were the arresting images that many of the pieces swung round. Things that a reader may have previously overlooked or not thought to examine – icebergs, charity shop items, tiny cuttings and plants… were given space for examination. Often creative pursuits featured large – characters making, painting and crafting. And there was also carefully drawn intensity of relationships with others – exploring the lengths we go to for connectedness. Sometimes with humans, but often, movingly, with non-human species. And I loved it when a story took me to a place I’d not been to before, geographically, or emotionally.  

What worked in many of these pieces though was where I felt trusted as the reader. A lightness of touch, an invisible nod from the writer that I would follow where they led – a certain confidence in the prose, and in me, to understand and be as intrigued by the heart of the story as the writer was. Ultimately, this is what it came down to in making the final choice for these three winning pieces.  

Thank you to all of the shortlisted writers for creating such evocative living, breathing stories. And congratulations to the writers of the following stories. 

First Prize Winner:  Rachel’s Mother by Melissa Mitcheson

This story stayed with me long after reading it. I kept returning to it, testing its walls, like a tantalising puzzle that the writer had gifted to me. There is energy and vibrance to the prose. There is humour in this story; a potent mode to play with. In the midst of a mildly ridiculous scenario as a mother seeks to collect all the copies of a book her daughter has written, she feels, about her, there is gut punch after gut punch, unexpected and yet perfectly measured. The extended shifting metaphor of the walls of books mounting and towering around this mother, offer avenues for exploring a fractured mother-daughter relationship. The story is playful around the idea of containment and emotional restraint, even down to the way the mother ties her favourite blue scarf about her neck. There is so much held within this tale – generational layers peeling away and revealing uncomfortable truths trapped, as it were, between the pages of a book. And it boldly explores that forbidden territory where a parent’s thoughts and feelings towards their child are murky, complex and not all together supportive. I loved this story. It surprised, shocked and delighted right to the very last line.  

Second Prize Winner:  The Ocean is a Desert by Susan Swan

The powerful and emotive voice in this piece won me over alongside a carefully considered structure and pace that layers imagery effectively. The interspecies interactions here could have fallen flat but are handled skilfully so that when the moment of change comes for the narrator it feels entirely authentic. This is a conservation story, with a deft touch and a beautifully measured last line. A clashing together of science and spirituality. It gave me a delightful insight into the world of whale rescue and created images in my mind that resonated back to me long after finishing the story.  

Third Prize Winner:  Even the Silence by Keren Heenan

I loved how this story stealthily revealed its truth. And the potent metaphoric weight of the iceberg, glacially cutting through the fabric of the story’s everyday, felt exactly right. The image of this great frozen body shifts and changes in meaning subtly through the story, an image the reader returns to alongside the protagonist to prod at and test. A powerful, lyrical image. The compelling voice of the narrator, her skittish fragmentation emerging in her thought process, speech and action, drew me to her and I felt what she felt intimately, being in this in between place, trapped, and I waited with her. A memorable and poignant piece of writing.  


Huge congratulations to all of these writers – we look forward to bringing you their wonderful stories in the anthology later this year.

For those of you mourning the end of this prize, never fear as we have launched a replacement over at our new journal, WestWord, where the winners and shortlisted stories will be published in an online anthology instead of a book.

Get info on the WestWord Prize here.

Monthly Micro Winners January 2023

Congratulations again to all of the shortlisted authors. Here are the winners! We received 82 entries, so first prize wins £123 and second prize wins £82


First Prize Winner: In This House We Don’t Burn Sage by Jeanine Skowronski

Why we chose it: we loved the unusual take on the theme


Second Prize Winner: House of Dunes by Angie McCullagh

Why we chose it: we liked the strong and consistent imagery through the piece


People’s Prize Winner: In This House, We Don’t Burn Sage by Jeanine Skowronski


Shortlisted Stories

Angel Numbers by Caroline Jenner – Read it here

Hope In A Box by Paul Thompson – Read it here

Oh Emily I Prayed by Julia Ruth Smith – Read it here

The Hum of Maybes by Henry Edwards – Read it here

A Nail-Biting Life by Ann Tudor – Read it here

The First Time Afterwards by Maria Thomas- Read it here

Present Tense by Denise Bayes – Read it here

Kyiv Christmas by Katy Wimhurst – Read it here

Verity by Emily Macdonald – Read it here


Jeanine and Angie win the cash prizes, and Jeanine also wins a ticket the the online flash fest

Well done to everyone!

We’ll be back with our next monthly micro comp in February.

The Final Quarterly Flash Longlist

We had 130 entries for our final quarterly flash competition, which closed on 30th December. Many thanks to everyone who sent us a story. Congrats to the writers of the following stories that have made the longlist. No telling which is yours though as it needs to stay anonymous all the way through!

Longlisted Stories

  • A Final Game of Hide-and-Seek
  • All The Cunning Weapons Of A Ninja
  • Body Language
  • Decluttering the Kitchen Cupboard
  • Enjoy Your Meal
  • Flick and Jane go to school
  • From tiny acorns
  • Funny, This
  • How to Make an Omelette
  • How to smuggle a pig
  • In captivity
  • Lasting Impressions
  • Mom the Moon
  • More Chickens in the Freezer
  • Nesting
  • Skimming
  • Tell It To Me Again
  • The Container
  • The day you chip a tooth and touch a nerve
  • The Hungry Student
  • The Trouble With My Sister
  • They’d have told her it was a load of old cobblers
  • Twenty Golden Notebooks
  • When the teacher talked about rape and you laughed
  • Will and Jesus
  • Wings
  • Unlocked Love

We’ll have the shortlist in February – good luck everyone!

In the meantime, don’t forget submissions to WestWord are open until 31st January to appear in the April edition.

Submission info here.

January 2023 Monthly Micro Shortlist

Vote for your favourite from these fab stories to win the surprise People’s Prize. Our judging team are busy re-reading to choose the winners of the cash prizes. Voting is open until 23.59 (UK time) on 23rd January 2023. Results will be announced on Tuesday 24th. Good luck everyone! The prompt this month was ‘warning’


In This House, We Don’t Burn Sage

We burn paper: loose-leaf, Monopoly money, recipe cards with hearts over each “i”. We pour circles of salt, use floured fingertips to trace her silhouette on our walls, a curl of hair, a kink of skirt. We pray to St. Peter, Hathor, Hecate. Spread honey over the step that keeps creaking, check in the morning for footprints, cold spots, a sick-sweet smell — the telltale signs of a ghost. We play Pa’s records backward, watch as he whiskeys himself to sleep. Sneak into Ma’s bedroom, slip a planchette under the pillows, our arms around each other, chant: Come home, come home.


Angel Numbers

My mother believed the number 4 represented hope, a solid number stretching North, South, East and West, a joyful number promising Spring would follow Winter, Summer arrive before Autumn, which is why on that drizzly afternoon of our first date, when I rushed out to buy decent coffee, and glancing at the clock noticed the time – 4.44pm; and when the bill at Waitrose came to £4.44; and having added the final touches to my make-up my watch revealed it was 4 minutes and 44 seconds before you were due to arrive, I finally believed that this time might be different.


Hope In A Box

They can send you hope in a box. Direct to your door, from a warehouse on the edge of town. Next day delivery; via a driverless capsule, weightless and free of charge.

You can open it once inside. Light spilling from within, flowing into your body. Fresh starts and future aspirations, pulsing in your skin, swirling through your veins.

They can offer you a subscription package. A daily box of hope, with access to similar product samples – nostalgia in a can, melancholy as a spray. Enough to make you feel everything is ok, just as promised on the label.


Oh Emily, I Prayed!

She pulls her corset tight, quietens the bird perching in her soul, lest his fluttering be heard. She walks with her parasol-pleased company over the bosomed hills towards the church. It’s a holy day. 

In the family pew, she feels the tiny heart, fit to bursting, throws back her slender white throat to sing. No words come forth but the Lord himself is listening, urgent wings ushering spring. It’s a fine day.

A devout man waits anxiously; his raven plummage gleaming. She nods easy consent and they fly. They will never stop at all, not this blessed day. 


The Hum Of Maybes

The tattered, mottled bedroll holds me snug, tucked deep inside the secret porch, a refuge from the bedlam, old papers crunch around my feet and thighs and then the dark crawls in, enclosing me, while muffled footsteps hurry by, taxis swish and buses trundle down their tracks. Across the street I see the shining toyshop window where puppets never sleep and Hornbys chug their rounds.

My knotted mind unwinds and drifts through humble, homespun dreams. I sense the hum of possibility, the echo of longing, the buzz of chance still burning, still there behind my tired eyes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe. 


A Nail-biting Life

Scrubbing her hands, finger by finger, taking care round her cuticles. Draw blood and she’d be sent home. 

Nails bitten short. At least she won’t snag the slub, no docking of wages for her. Never mind that her mum says her she won’t catch a lad. Boys can wait. 

‘Get going. Heads down, feet on pedals.’ 

Ten hours of guiding slipping red silk through machines, sewing side seams, necklines and hems. Last girl in the line fixes the fancy labels, counting, nodding. One thousand fine dresses for princesses with boys to kiss. 

                                                                        Later she paints bitter aloes on her nails. 


The First Time Afterwards

The hairdresser wears sleeves of words wrist to shoulder, twisting and writhing from beneath spaghetti-straps. She’s a pantoum, a villanelle, an elegy.

Lewis reads her as she shears him. Her stories spiral with dazzle and despair, reaching him – almost. Looking up he sees her watching in the glass. She nods briefly, a shared second, connected.

After they make love he leaves her in his gelid bed, stands in the empty room next door takes in the décor, wallpaper animals crossing two-by-two, ghost photographs of mother and child on the dresser. He wonders if new starts are possible after such sadness. 


Present Tense

Sellotape snags on metal serrations. He stretches the strip along the fold. Admires the glitter pink stags leaping across the paper, bought in the precinct. 

“Our Ellie loves deer, has a fluffy one on her bed,” he’d told the assistant as she rolled the wrap into a tube. 

He writes the label.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart. Love Dad 

Carries the gift past the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall, unturned since the day she disappeared. Days, months, years sliding away.

Opening the door, he places the present onto the doorstep. Gazes out far beyond the view. 

“You’re going to love it.”


Kyiv Christmas

Blue and yellow lights illuminate the towering artificial tree in Sofia Square. 

Olek clings to her. ‘I wish Daddy was here.’ His breath mists in the cold.  

She composes herself, worried that her voice will crack. ‘Next year, hopefully.’ To distract Olek, she points. ‘Look. The tree is lit by that bicycle generator because of the power cut. Let’s find out who is pedalling it.’

They walk over, staring up at the tree. She thinks about Marko in his combat gear, all those kilometres away, tensely watching for quite different lights above in the night.


Verity

When she saw the swirling moonscapes, the clouds and craters that said embryos— embedded—she named the triplets, Faith, Hope and Charity, anticipating the love. 

A mothership, she floated, only flimsily attached while they cut, peeled her open, floated, far out in aching black space, unaware of their arrival.

She anchored in an insecure berth, shocked by the red screwed faces with greedy mewling mouths, furious at the persistent, selfish cries. The plague of milk spots, the kicking chicken legs and red, swollen genitals. Ugly, hateful, spiteful little things. Pestilence, Gluttony and Wrath. In secret she named them again.


House Of Dunes

I wade through heavy sand. Room to room. 

It drifts over window ledges and props doors permanently open. It has settled where I used to sip tea and cook Qormah.

It ripples in strips of sunlight. 

It’s been a long time since the nebula of dust tumbled over the city, choking us, working its way into our scalps, coating our throats. Horses nearby charged into wire fences, tangling, dying.

And now, I reach for a lumpy object: a doll left in our hurry to get away. Pressing the gritty thing to my chest, I wonder if my daughter will remember it. 


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