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by Tracy Fells

We were warned to be vigilant when travelling on the metro. It was standing room only on the train to the Colosseum. I cradled my handbag and gripped a sweat-streaked strap, praying to stay upright. A girl was pushed against me. Her fish eyes stared, unblinking, with tiny black dots for pupils. I twisted my hand, flashing the gold band that demonstrated I was a married woman, not into her type. She didn’t look away. Flushing, I glanced down to where her fingers were gently unzipping my bag.

In the hotel’s shower furnace hot pellets shocked my skin, washing away her scent.


Tracy Fells lives close to the South Downs in West Sussex. Her short stories are published in magazines including Firewords Quarterly, online at Litro New York and Holdfast, and in anthologies such as Fugue (Siren Press). Competition success includes shortlistings for the Commonwealth Writers Short Story Prize, Fish Short Story and Flash Fiction Prizes. She shares a blog with The Literary Pig (http://tracyfells.blogspot.co.uk/), haunts Facebook and tweets as @theliterarypig.

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