Every morning the same: Ellis relearning how to get through Tiny Swing Door, pawing at it like Greg fumbling at the front door when he’s drunk and cuddles too hard. It’s embarrassing. Ellis is supposed to be the clever one. I’m the runt; tiny, gimpy walk, but he’s part-cat, part-dickhead. I wait outside for him to figure it out, but today he gives up and slopes away as rain starts to fall. I scamper in but Tiny Swing Door won’t budge. I’m locked out. And then there he is, inside, inscrutable. He raises an eyebrow and stalks away.
Come for the flash fiction and short stories. Stay for the sense of wonder at deriving meaning from weird symbols on a screen