Lacklustre afternoon skies erupt into crimson with an injection of his rage. We can feel it coming, black and blue clouds moving in overhead, and so we huddle together waiting for the explosion—My body trembling in anticipation of the blows. Max bolting under the table when we hear the door slam open—But they never come. Hyperventilating with fear, I suck in air, inflating my gular pouch and ballooning my chest cavity. My arms float up spreading out two meters in length. —He doesn’t dare touch me. He hangs back at the other end of the room tamping down his haystack hair. “You look like a damn Bustard, Georgia!” I bellow a smart retort and flap my wings. I feel like taking chances. Max scampers out of hiding and sidles up against my leg, echoing my sentiment with a low growl. Things sure are different after that. The following morning, I return to the library and check-out more National Geographic magazines on “Animal Species and their Unique Adaptations”. (169 words) Published in Emerge Literary Journal, June 1, 2020.
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Frannie is lollygagging about in the blueberry patch — her pint-size arm threaded through the handle of the scrub bucket — as she milks the plump berries into it with her tiny purple-splotched fingers. Her mother sits a few meters away on the checkered picnic blanket, complaining to the neighbour, Delores, about her dad, “the Rat.” Frannie’s skin crawls each time her Mom calls her dad “the Rat.” She imagines his twisty whiskers tickling her every time he scoops her up and squeezes her to plant a kiss. His pointed head, large eyes, and prominent, thinly furred ears loom large as she wonders how pointed, how large, and how furry they have become since she saw him last. Because now he is “a big Rat,” says Mom. Daddy hasn’t come out from the city on the weekends like he ought, and Mommy is not at all happy. Summers at the cottage by the lake are supposed to be fun, but not this year. Frannie toddles over to the edge of the blanket swinging her half-emptied pail, and plunks herself down beside the Grey Poupon, tea sandwiches, English cucumbers, Oka cheese, and blue grapes. She reaches for the fizzy pink bottle before her Mom shoots out a hand to stop her. It appears faster than a lizard’s tongue. Frannie purses her lips to speak but thinks better of it. “The Rat” has sent a message with Delores’s husband, who arrives at the cottage in the evening with paper cut-out dolls for Frannie. He plucks a blueberry off the top of the newly baked pie and tousles her hair, asking in a really loud voice if she picked the juicy ones all by herself. His chisel-like upper and lower incisors glisten as he bends over and plants a sweaty kiss on Mommy’s lips, before they scurry upstairs. Frannie catches a whiff of something foul and wonders just what kind of “Rat” he is. 319 words Published in Spelk Fiction, June 10 2020
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