By Cath Barton
Potato chips are the bane of my life. Several times a day there’s a scatter of greasy fragments on the classroom floor after the kids have gone.
I’m on my knees picking them up when I hear the door creak open. Static crackles round my shoulders as I feel his approach.
Time stops until I tense and push up, hard. I’m stronger than he expected and he stumbles back.
Round his fallen head is a salted halo.
Afterwards I remember incongruous details—a loose thread on his sleeve, a scuff mark on his shoe—and I feel sorry for his mother.
An eerie story. You want to cheer for the victim, yet you feel sorry for the other victims as well. Very well done.
Thanks Bobby!
A story surrounded by potato chips. Interesting and well-written. Nice work.
Thank you Lisa!
The ‘salted halo’ is an amazing image!
Thank you!