Sunday, 6 September 2015


by Elliott Dunstan

She'd forgotten what she was hiding from. She supposed enough time had passed that it was reasonable, after all, for her memories to be fuzzy – funny, though, how she couldn't quite place that, either. All she knew was that the tall columns of stalactites and stalagmites kept her safe. From – something. Someone. It didn't matter. Safe. She was safe. And she didn't particularly care to wander, anyway. She remembered nothing of the upper world, except how the scent of blood had filled her lungs and made her mind spark and rage, and how the orange sun had burnt her skin.

Author bio: Elliott Dunstan is an Ottawa-based young writer of poetry, fiction and non-fiction with a taste for feminist mythology, gruesome stories and tales that inspire more questions than they answer. They post ramblings, thoughts and the occasional unrefined work at their blog,

Safe is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.

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