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Calibre Prize

The Chirp/The Scream

by Natasha Sholl
June 2025, no. 476

My mother is chirping, like a small bird. I laugh. What a fun game. And when I run through the house to find her, there is a man in a balaclava with a knife to her throat. She is not chirping. She is screaming. The expectation of one thing when the opposite is true. And yet in my memory it is still a chirp, not a scream.

 


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