Four Things

The smallest thing was yellow and hunched over. I couldn’t see it very well as it was behind the other three things. The things all looked similar – like weird, organic Russian dolls that might, if scooped out, fit inside each other. Arm inside arm, leg inside leg.

The biggest one was green. It was bulky in a way that suggested masculinity. It had definite hands, fingers. But no mouth. I wondered how it had absorbed nutrients – or had it been born, and always been, this size?

My mother tugged at my arm. ‘Don’t stare,’ she said.
I tried but it was so difficult. Everything in that vast hallway was so different, new and exciting.
And in turn – everything stared at us, my mother and me.

I wondered if they too were the last specimens of their respective races.

The following two tabs change content below.
David Baillie is a freelance writer and artist. Born almost thirty years ago in Scotland, he now lives and works in the East End of London.

Latest posts by davidbaillie (see all)

There are no comments

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Please enter an e-mail address