Flash Fiction Award 2025
2nd Place
'Secrets My Doll Will Never Tell You'
by Rosie Mowatt
I lose my doll at the lake, certain she’s drowned. In dreams, her yellow wool hair and sewn-on smile appear to drift just beneath the surface, her arms outstretched, looking up. At Christmas, she’s under the tree, a scarlet ribbon around her neck. No label. Same, but different. Still damp around the edges.
Grass swishes against my calves, cows sway like ships around me. One looks up, patiently chewing cud, then begins to follow me. Another joins. Then another. Suddenly I’m running across the field. The herd thunders behind, hooves tearing up the quiet. I see a dot of yellow on the gate ahead. I pick up pace, I can’t reach it.
Later, in a snowstorm, my mother steps into a hollow rabbit hole, disappears downward with a yelp. Badger, the dachshund dog is gone too, just a trail of pawprints in the yellow snow. We shout, laugh nervously, wait for them to rise out of the drift like it’s a game. The sky is all grimacing teeth that day.
A birthday party. I’m playing rounders, slip on wet grass. My wrist snaps like dry wood. ‘Get up. It’s just a scratch,’ my doll whispers in my ear. I swallow my tears, use my good arm to steer my bike home.
Older now, I’m skiing and the mountain pitches too fast. I can’t turn, have to keep descending. Out of control. The edge of the cliff comes into view like a full stop. My doll beckons, yellow hair covered by woollen ear muffs. The fall is long, soft and slow.
The boat flips fast. One moment horizon, the next, the taste of salt in my mouth and no lifebelts. We float in the churn. The waves don’t care who we are. It’s the first time I see a grown-up cry. I open my clenched fist, stare as a strand of yellow wool floats away. No-one notices the way the world tilts.
Somewhere, I know my doll is still smiling, waiting for me. Keeping my secrets safe at the bottom of the lake.
'Secrets My Doll Will Never Tell You' © Rosie Mowatt 2025. Published under license.
Banner image © Judy Darley 2024.