By Kik Lodge
Once you’re out of bed and seated next to me, and I’ve pretend-twisted the key over my lips and activated the pulley, jerking the ladle that rolls a golf ball down the plank and into the hole igniting the flame that burns the photo of us at Greenling (where all the lies started), once the heat has released the salted butter down the inclined plane to fuse with the thesaurus and – my favourite bit – started the domino of books that bites into spine after spine until the wood-hammer taped to your copy of Ulysses comes down on play and activates the Dictaphone where a message says ‘I am leaving you’ in every language other than English, you will sigh, propelling me upwards and out the door.
Kik Lodge writes short fiction in France; her work has featured in The Moth, Tiny Molecules, The Cabinet of Heed, Reflex Fiction, Slegehammer Lit, Ellipsis Zine, Splonk, Bending Genres, Janus Literary and Litro.
Art by Si Egan.
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