Some more TwiX short short stories.

It’s her first night outside, wrapped in blankets as we barbecue. Dark eyes wide, round face still, she sees the stars for the first time.

That evening, Frank Clark learned a valuable lesson about HR at Disney: wait until after the parade to fire someone.

Blood turns the bubbles pink, a sickly froth gliding down the driveway. “Roadkill?” he asks. She kicks the helmet out of sight, nods.

She can feel the goddess’s iron eyes staring, her face wooden hardness. Guilt oak-heavy, she buries it beside him in the Ballachulish bog.