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The Northern lights shatter my heart. They taste like absinthe. Her ghost shimmies towards me on the dark water. Ten decks, four chimneys, big rudder and shiny propellers. It’s OK, she says, I understand. You were lonely and intoxicated. Get help. So… My name is Iceberg, I introduce myself to the group, and I’m lost. Crick crack, they welcome me. A chatterer boasts about his film credits. Given plenty of space in which to burble, he gulps and sinks half a metre. The group leaders, a polar bear and a walrus, encourage me to plumb my need to merge, or at least reattach. My fellow bergs vibrate and grind and make blooping noises. Solo for so long. Freedom is desolate. Missing Mum. We all cry and the sea levels rise.
Frances Gapper's stories have been published in three Best Microfiction anthologies and in online lit mags including Splonk, Wigleaf, Twin Pies, 100 Word Story, Café Irreal and the Dribble Drabble Review. She lives in the UK.
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