Flash Fiction by Angela Wilson

             By Angela Wilson

First, I remember blood flicking up from my sandals, sticking to my skin. Wishing I’d gone swimming with Mum and my brothers — not opting to come here with Dad. (Even though I didn’t like going under.) It was too late to change my mind, he said, and ruffled my hair.

Second, I remember the blood in the gutters, running along corridors into drains. The stained white boots of the man Dad knew who was showing us around. My soles peeling off the floor       with       every       step. My breath quicker-shorter. The hair caught in the drains.

Third, I remember the skinned translucent carcasses, hung up on metal hooks. How starved and sad they looked.

Fourth, I remember the slippery grey guts, spilling out warm onto the floor. I wondered how you would pick it up. Bile burnt my throat.

The killings came at the end. I’m unable to give you more, except       I couldn’t stop them. And I hated every adult in the room with a knife.

I remember the cows waiting in line, their wide eyes darting around. I wondered if any of them knew each other. I remember their puffy noses pressed through the railings, sniffing — at least I thought — for dandelions and grass. 

- Angela Wilson lives and writes in Wellington City, NZ. Her flash fiction has appeared in Flash Frontier and is forthcoming in Litro Magazine. She holds an MCW from Auckland University of Technology, and her work has been nominated for Pushcart and Best Small Fictions. Busy crowded places inspire her writing.

Copyright©2022 by Angela Wilson. All Rights Reserved.