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.

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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.

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