by Louisa King

Lena couldn’t bring herself to swallow any more of them, despite their sugary coating. Even scorched black and long dead, the thought of them scuttling down her throat persisted. But four years of post-flood crop blight and stem rot disease had left little choice in the supermarkets.

She stroked her nascent bump, picturing his tiny growing heart and limbs. It’s protein, she reminded herself. That night, relieved to feel the first gentle fluttering kicks, she finally fell asleep. She didn’t notice those movements inside becoming stronger, or the papery crackling noise of wings unfurling and the frantic clicking of legs.


Louisa King

Louisa King lives in Scotland and loves to write tiny stories. Her work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Retreat West, Reflex Fiction, and Friday Flash Fiction.

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