Microfiction by Nicola Rathbone
The pram sagged to one side, the left front wheel leaning away as if keen to leave its compatriots to the burden of the heavy load that threatened to sweep a tsunami of tat over the pram sides.
Crumpled hands caressed the handle lovingly as the pram sashayed and swayed in the shadow of the old factory that now made nothing but broken dreams.
She stopped. Here would do. The shell of her old life to wrap around the vacancy of loss.
Autistic Village 