Look, I know it ain’t much, a bottle of fizzy pop, nabbed after last night’s shift at the Golden Dragon, but your mom’s got foil, paints borrowed from working today’s kids’ club, and paper, all crinkly like, for flames from them thrusters—the bog roll’s ours, at least—and I know it’s not the one you want, the one we promised, with the flashing lights and the countdown song, and God knows I’m cack-handed, will probably mess it all up, but we’re trying our hardest, and when we take off from here, someday soon, I swear by that there moon we’ll soar.
James Montgomery writes from Stafford in the UK. His stories have been published by Bath Flash Fiction Award, Splonk, The Welkin Prize, Emerge Literary Journal, Gone Lawn, Maudlin House, Reflex Fiction and more. Find him at www.jamesmontgomerywrites.com
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