A Short Story by Lucy Brighton “I dare you to knock on the witch’s door,” I say. “And say what?” “Run away or she’ll turn you into a frog or summat.” “I think we…I don’t know, Lolly.” Rachel’s fourteen months older than me, almost eight, but you’d think she was younger. She’s yellow. That’s what Mum calls someone who is chicken. Her lip trembles and I know she doesn’t want to cry in front of me or I’ll call her Tiny Tears. Guilt gnaws in my belly, flooding my body and mak

I am alive.    I am sparked into being by our connection. Our touch is tentative at first, as lovers rekindling after a long time apart. We will sustain each other, you and I.    There is a voice, but it sounds distant, like a scream muffled by fog and sand.    “Can you hear me, Mrs Swift?”   We quicken and jump, it catches me off guard for a second, but I regulate, send you my steadiness through our intertwining tendrils.    Da dum da dum da dum.   “Yes,” you croak, parched