by Alison Wassell
Gran reckoned anger, left to fester, turned your insides bad. Best to nip it in the bud before you went to bed.
The Summer Mum left, taking only the new curate and the bump under her baggy tops, the air at Gran’s Bible class was thick with flies and gossip. I sat at the back, peeling corpses off fly papers and pulling off the legs. Later, I’d bake the bodies into scones to serve to the church ladies, passing them off as currants. I was a credit to Gran, the ladies said.
Somehow, I didn’t feel so angry, after that.
Author: Alison Wassell is a short story, flash and micro fiction writer from North West England. She has no plans whatsoever to write a novel.
This story won the People’s Prize vote in the October 2023 Monthly Micro Competition.