Bill’s kids signed the papers, now he’s trapped with the Von Trapps. High-backed chairs. VCR’d harmonies. But each Saturday night, the black Ford Fiesta with a souped-up car stereo, rattles locked windows to blast Bill’s favourite anthem the stinkety-stale cabbage and fresh ammonia. And in those precious, closed-eye moments before Bill’s wheeled away, strip-washed. Before rubber-gloved hands yank rabbit-boned limbs into somebody else's name-tagged pyjamas, Bill tastes dry ice. He throbs with the bass. He’s back in the club reeking of cigarettes and sex. Hands in the air. Leather jackets, unzipped. The rush of amyl nitrate. His mind exploding. Fireworks.
Kate Axeford ( she/ hers) social works by day. She lives in Brighton and loves the sea. Her work has appeared in Brilliant Flash Fiction, Bending Genres, Splonk and others and she’s been short and longlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award. Find her at @kateaxeford.bsky.social
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