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at a rusty angle. She remembered there was a shed at the back, with a dirt-smeared window, and she climbed the steps to it now, angled her palms against the glass and peered in. The sellers had left it full of junk; a once-orange lawnmower, a workbench jammed full of old pots. She and Andy, they’d wanted all this, when they’d done the viewing. Mid thirties; it was the age to be tired of the urban grind, the right time to tuck oneself away, to retreat from the noise and the aggro, the drunks outside their flat at night, the sirens, the constant stream of people past their door. The shed, with its old pitched roof and weathered boards seemed to symbolise an escape from all that, a refuge from the reeling city. She heard a squawk. Shit, she thought, a bloody bird’s got trapped in there. She pressed her ear to the door. It wasn’t a squawk; it was more of a mewl. Maybe a cat. Perhaps they’d left it behind; it wouldn’t be unheard of, in the chaos of packing and moving. She fiddled with the shed door, assuming it locked, and when it swung open she stood there for a moment, as the interior arranged itself into lozenges of shade and sunlight. On the earth-strewn planked floor was an old-fashioned sort of carrycot, the kind that used to fit onto wheels to make a pram, like the one her mother had wheeled them all about in, once upon a time. Violet rocked the soles of her feet over the raised wooden bar of the shed’s ÉCLAT FICTION

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MAY 2012

Profile for Eclat Fiction

Éclat Fiction - Issue 3  

The third issue of Éclat Fiction (an online short story anthology). www.eclatfiction.com

Éclat Fiction - Issue 3  

The third issue of Éclat Fiction (an online short story anthology). www.eclatfiction.com

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