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Alison Marr

Flash fiction, poetry and other musings.


February 1, 2020 | Fiction

Pale morning, the sea flat and the fields above Lacy’s Hill damp with dew, Shush, they can hear you coming, Mother said. What the mushrooms can hear us? I asked. Of course she whispered, holding her wicker basket and creeping like a commando. I was surprised she had not camouflaged her face and brought Daddy’s gun from the war. From the rookery the birds looked disdainfully at us. One lazily flapped his wing but they were quiet as we bent and picked the mushrooms in their mysterious pale clothes from the long rough grasses. Then out of the corner of my eye I could see some of the mushrooms easing themselves back into the damp loam oh so silently and the rooks were laughing. When we got home I thought I saw them shiver in the basket and refused to eat any. Mother stewed them in milk and butter and ate the lot in her Chinese blue bowl.