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by Louella Lester
Some things only show up when they aren’t expected. Like when the sun still finds itself trapped under the eastern horizon, waiting to burst out, and you’re just home from a done and dusted party, lying on your bed, a beanbag chair, psychedelics still keeping you awake. You ease yourself up, so as not to wake your sister, tiptoe to the bathroom, flick on the light. They are limpid, transparent, translucent, not really silver. They flit, scuttle, skitter, not really fish. They flee over the tiny white hexagon tiles into edges and fissures, leaving you unsure of what you’ve seen.
Louella Lester is a writer/photographer in Winnipeg, Canada, author of Glass Bricks, contributing editor at NFFR, and is included in Best Microfiction 2024.
