Out on the lake, the low plaintive call of Canada geese lingered in the mist, the sound reverberating in the moist air like an echo.
‘Laika’ Flash Fiction inspired by prompt from Visual Verse written by Jennifer Harvey
You can also listen to Natalie Winter read this story over at the Mash Stories Soundcloud podcast The Wing Walker We’re in the desert and it’s way more beautiful than I expected. In the early morning light, the sand is dusky pink, a damask rose that folds, dips and ripples like the ocean. I had imagined something harsh. A sun too bright to walk towards, a wind that flicked sand grains at your eyes, a heat that left you brittle. The calm comes as a surprise. It was Alexander’s idea. “The Al Ain” he said. When I looked at him, Read More
“The trouble with these people is they take themselves too seriously. In fact, they take everything too seriously.” She offered up a half-hearted grunt by way of reply, because she didn’t want to encourage him. If he thought he had her attention, he would keep going, on and on, about this, that and the other. She looked towards the television to see what it was that was aggravating him this time. Some kid was on the news. She could tell it was a kid by how slight their shoulders were, and something about the stance, defiant, but unsure for all Read More
We lay there, skin on skin. A breeze billowed the curtain and I watched as goosebumps shivered on the small of your back like a kiss. There was not much left of the day. Through the window I could see the light fading and soon it would be dark, but neither of us made a move to leave. The moment would pass soon enough, something we both knew. Better to lie there a while, side by side, and let it fill us. You shift beneath the sheets and turn to face me. “Do you ever remember?” It’s confusing at first. Read More
She makes a dive and for once it isn’t perfect. Resurfacing through ripples of water, she splutters and looks around as if to ask, “How’d that happen?” I shrug as she eases herself up onto the riverbank and she sticks her tongue out before composing herself, arms outstretched, head lowered. She dives again. No splash. We spend the day this way. I lie in the grass, drowsy in the heat, listening as she breaks the surface of the water, over and over. Tomorrow she’ll leave. But she knows not to say she’s been swimming in the river. We understand now Read More