Competition Twenty-Seven Shortlisted: Staying Strong by Joanna Miller
“Packages take longer,” the support worker had said. And that’s how it went, a whole year before we were placed with foster parents: two urban fox cubs set free, hungry to explore our new world of dense woods, scrambled tors and hidden valleys. On the first day of term, we snuck away from the school bus, returning to the river’s safety.
“Did she ever love us?” Danny knelt bare-chested next to our den, carving a stick, his scars glowering, the highlights in his lucky double crown glinting like treasure. He didn’t look up, and I didn’t answer.
Although we never mentioned her, she still haunted us, appearing in my dreams sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by stacks of unwashed dishes and old newspapers, royal bruises shading her hollowed eyes, hugging Danny to her, singing in the softest voice you ever heard. I could’ve told him that, but he was my charge now, and we both wore full metal jackets. Instead, the silence quivered between us, drawn tight, till he looked up, all expectant, apple-cheeked, his jaw working like he was chewing gum.
“No, she never did.” I hawked and spat in the grass. Disappointment shadowed his face. Then he hurled the stick into the river, grabbed the tree rope and swung out over the deep pool.
“Geronimo!” he yelled.
I watched him disappear under a swirl of ripples. When he didn’t resurface, I started counting, shit-scared, thinking he was gone and I should’ve told him, and just when I felt the first prickle of tears and thought the dam might burst, he broke the surface, roaring like a swamp monster.
“Pillock!” I grinned, turning away, feeling my heart expand bigger than a hot air balloon, knowing I was still his protector, hoping we’d always have each other.
Joanna lives in Derbyshire with her partner, three dogs, and a long-suffering cat. She writes micro, flash and short stories.
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