kieran cottrell

flash: Whenua

Whenua There were three of us already planted in the backyard: Wiremu, Mataī, and me.  ‘Why am I the smallest?’ I ask Mama, looking at my tree. ‘Because you were the youngest, Aroha. Don’t you worry, you’ll grow in time.’ She pushes my hair away from my eyes, and smiles. But not like she used

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Fiction. Ice Cream, by Harry Dobbs. Image: the silhouette of an ice cream with an American flag stuck in it. Inside the ice cream are silhouettes of a couple and three military jets.

fiction: Ice Cream

Ice Cream I turn and see Blake struggle up the pot-holed street. Directly above him, an old woman smokes on a balcony, her bare arms resting on its metal railing. Blake looks like a tourist. An American tourist. Which he is. Basketball vest, baggy shorts, battered trainers. A back-to-front baseball cap. Two years in London

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