By R. J. Kinnarney
‘If I tell you how it’s done, I’ll have to kill you.’ Grandpa winked. We’d all slept in the cradle of his elaborate Magic Circle fantasy for years and no one wanted to mention that the cradle was now coming loose from its rocker.
He reached behind my ear, eyebrows knitted, claw hands knotted.
The coin, released from its mooring up Grandpa’s sleeve, thudded to the ground.
I coughed, loudly, and slid my toe over the silver traitor.
‘I think there’s something under my shoe.’ I shifted and revealed the coin. ‘You made it jump. You really are magic, Grandpa.’
R. J. Kinnarney is trying to make sense of their tiny corner of the world, through tiny pieces of writing and lots of reading. Currently working on a novel, which looks at attitudes to war, communication, prejudice and what strength means. Words lie out there in all sorts of places and links can be found at rjkinnarney.com
Twitter: @rjkinnarney
The Birdseed 