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She’s making friends. Already.

It’s been only a few weeks. So little time, so many changes. The people are strange, but at least they don’t shoot at us.

My little girl goes to school. It’s the law. And now she brought home a boy. Where she’s dark, he’s fair – blond and pale like all of them, grey eyes lowered. She pulls him inside. “This is Nils. We’ll do homework together.” He looks confused, uncomfortable.

She changes to Swedish, gestures. “My dad,” I guess she says. He bows, stretches out a hand.

“Hallå,” I say. The only word I know.


Written for the 99-words-flash-fiction-challenge on the Carrot Ranch:

February 23, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a migration story. It can imagine the dusty or arctic trails of the frontiers past or look to the travel across the galaxy. What issue about modern migration bans might influence an artistic expression in a flash? Migrate where the prompt leads you.

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