Every time. Every bloody time I find a little stone at the bottom of my shoe. I take it off, shake it and put my foot back in. The little fucker's still there. It's still there! I go looking for it with my hand. I have a feel of my sock. Nothing. Nada. I'm heading for work, I'm tired, I'm falling over the bottom of the stairs looking for an enemy I cannot see. At this point, I'm fighting with myself really. I give that up quick, put the shoe on, tie my laces with one blurry eye and fuck off to the station. The stone and I are just going to have to be pals for the day. The little shit.
Nadja Moore is a writer based in Surrey, UK. She has a day job, a roommate, a band called Lilies in my brain and no pets. Her poems have appeared in Horror Sleaze Trash, Terror House Magazine and Synchronized Chaos.
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