Twitch by Sarah Little

There’s a low hum of static in the

background. White noise, it’s

soothing, but noticeable

when taken away.

The sound feels like having a warm blanket

taken off your body, and the air in the inches

immediately around you dropping seven

degrees.

A refrigerator has been left open too long, and it

begins beeping in protest. High-pitched.

Insistent, demanding, an unwelcomely petulant

child making their immediate requests known.

Now.

The beeping takes on a whining note, if a

fridge could sound whiny, and my leg twitches

involuntarily. If I were sitting at a table, my

knee’d be connecting with the underside of it.

My hands are full. The beeping picks up

again and seems to be sooner than I thought.

I want to throw something, smack the door

shut, and leave the kitchen. It almost feels

compulsory at this point.

My hands twitch, and it’s all I can do not to

drop the ingredients: the milk jug would

shatter, two eggs would slop across the floor,

and the butter would be ruined by the flour

snug in the crook of my arm.

Were I to take my pulse, I’m sure it would

be

thudding against the pads of my

fingers.

I free my hands, one egg wobbling slightly

precariously on the benchtop, and bang the door

shut harder than really necessary.

The beeps stop, and it feels like pulling that

warm blanket back over your cold body.



Revere by Sarah Little

Discomfort by Chi Ilochi

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