By Marie Little

Back in the car, parked up, windows up. Rain again for the school run. She has restocked all the car crannies with chocolate, cereal bars, wipes; brand new Hot Wheels in the glove box (emergency: as yet unused). Just eight minutes home but without the prep, feels like fifty. The wind’s getting up; the baby twists in his seat. She is too tired to search for words to comfort him. The same story loops out on the scratched CD that has been in since Christmas. A gust nudges the car like an angry lion. At 2.49pm she will exit the car, strap the baby into his buggy, walk to the gates and remember that they do not do this anymore.

Marie lives near fields with her family and writes in the shed. She has flash fiction/memoir featured or forthcoming in: Catatonic Daughters, Five Minutes, Sledgehammer, Gastropoda, Free Flash Fiction, Re-Side and 50-Word Stories. She also has poetry featured in several literary magazines. She is on Twitter @jamsaucer