Where on earth is that helmet? It can’t be that far away. Surely? It’s been a while since I wore it last mind you. But I’ve looked under the bed. In the hall cupboard. The bottom of my wardrobe. Even up in the attic. No trace. I’m beginning to get frustrated. And annoyed. Annoyed with myself. Since I should have been more organised. If I had started getting my things ready last night, then I would probably be on top of things. Then again, I feel as if I have exhausted everywhere that damned helmet could possibly be. Then all at once it comes to me. I remember. I lent it to my sister. Well, that’s no good. Shelly lives forty miles away and Darren is due to pick me up in half an hour! Almost half an hour later I hear the doorbell. I open the door to Darren, dressed in my leathers. “You wouldn’t have a spare helmet would you?” I ask. “What the…..?” Darren gazes at me, a puzzled look on his face. It’s only then that I realise Darren isn’t wearing biking gear. He’s got on shorts, a t-shirt and walking boots. “I thought we were going biking for our date?” Darren shakes his head, attempting not to laugh. “I said hiking, not biking!”

Father's tongue falls out of his mouth during Sunday dinner. One moment he is spewing a hail-storm of hateful, hurtful words, next moment, the muscle lands from his mouth onto a half-eaten bun.   Mother crushes the napkin in her fists, quakes in her chair. My fork and knife clang-clatter onto the tiled floor. Father's vast, toothy mouth drops wide open, revealing bits of food stuck in his molars. He lunges after the slimy pink organ with his meaty fingers, scattering the bread and tipping the soup tureen. The quick tongue, moist with a coating of spittle, slip-slithers away from him. Father is particular about taking care of his sinful tongue. He scrapes the three-inch length with a stainless steel, U-shaped tongue cleaner every morning and every night, over and over. He has grated, and grated, and flattened his taste buds. Now, he cannot taste the tomato sauce in a lasagna or the brown sugar mother adds to the apple pie. Today, he screamed at Mother for her muddy soup, for the chalky bread, for the salt-less vegetables. His tongue, that soft body part, hit her harder than a baseball bat. She's learned to tuck the injuries under a soft voice, inside her soundless movements, behind her lowered gaze. Father swings across the table making guttural sounds, gasping, grasping for his tongue which has flipped upside down in the oven-roasted vegetables. Faint blue lines mark the organ, veins maybe. The muscle leaps onto Mother's plate. In two breaths, she places the tines of her fork on Father's tongue, holds her knife poised over the flesh. He waves his arms up and down, up and down, stamps his feet, thud-thud-thud. Mother pins her gaze on him. It's as steady as her fork on his passive tongue.   --- First published in Stanchion Zine, October, 2022.  Sudha Balagopal work appears or is forthcoming in Banshee, Doric Literary and Fictive Dream among other journals. Her novella-in-flash, Nose Ornaments, was published by Ad Hoc Fiction, UK, in 2024. She has had stories included in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions and the Wigleaf Top50.

I’m doing fifty-two on a forty mile per hour road when I see a fox dart out from the verge. I slam my palm on the horn and my foot on the brake. Next to me, Kaley screams, the contents of her backpack...