A couple argues in the front row. I perch forward on my seat and fan myself with a leaflet foisted on me at the bus stop. The soft glow of an orange sunset flashes onto us in rhythmic intervals through the roadside trees. Overhead, a skein of geese glide home.
Marinda Kotze wrote this micro story on a long bus ride home.
I was on my way to buy milk when I decided to walk further. One block became two, and soon the apartment buildings cast long shadows across the sidewalks. At each crossing I felt compelled to keep going. I’ll know when to stop. Right?
Is this how people go missing?
Marinda Kotze writes microfiction when she is supposed to be writing a novel.
They gave him a wide berth as he shuffled past them. Not out of respect, but out of fear. Not fear that he would harm them; he seemed innocuous. But as he rummaged through the dumpster, he reminded them of how close they all were to the edge of ruin.
Marinda Kotze lives above a 24/7 supermarket in the inner city of an Eastern European metropolis.