Mrs Eleanor Easton, a woman of habit, rises. 6.21 a.m. She dresses, as always, immediately: nightclothes on chair, twenty toe touches, floss, avoid mirror. In the kitchen: flick on kettle, wholemeal slice in toaster, pretend electricity works. At the table: nibble limp bread, sip cold tea, re-read five-day-old newspaper. Suddenly: she stands, chair aclatter, swings wide the back door once leading to her garden – Desdemona roses, blue delphiniums, delicate sweet peas and catmint, towering hollyhocks, heady honeysuckle – and lets out a scream so long, so loud, the void echoes it back. The clock: still 6.21 a.m.
Erin Bondo grew up in rural Ontario, Canada on the unceded and unsurrendered territory of the Anishinabek and now lives in Scotland. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and placed or listed in a number of competitions, including the Bridport Prize, Bath Flash Fiction Award and Welkin Prize. She has work published or forthcoming with Kelp Journal's The Wave, SEXTET, WestWord, NFFD, Flash Fiction Festival, and others. Find her on Bluesky @erinbondo.com
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