Past Imperfect by Louella Lester

Lopsided

Mom was wrapping, tucking, and pulling the shoelace, demonstrating a perfect bow. “Now, you do the other foot.”

Wobbled

Dad was visiting, his long fingers going almost all the way around the football, touching the laces that face away, throwing a perfect spiral. “You give it a try.”

Broken

My best friend was punching the pocket her brother’s old baseball glove, telling me to watch so I can imitate her, then examining the laces, and perfectly catching the ball. “Okay, now I’ll throw to you.”

Torn

My older sister was lending me her favourite dress, helping me into it, the ribbon lacing up to perfectly cinch at the back. “Don’t try to undo it yourself or let some stupid boy at it, eh?”

Ripped

The guy at the bar was pulling a tiny pipe from his pocket, smiling with his perfect teeth, hooking his fingers into the laces fronting his jeans. “Can you help me with this?”

Damaged

He was lying on a lumpy mattress on the floor, eyes perfectly glazed, saying, “Honey, there’s no choice, we need the money,” while smoking the last of something laced with something else.

Louella Lester is a writer and photographer from Winnipeg Canada. She has published flash fiction, micro fiction, poetry, & CNF in a variety of online and print journals. Her book Glass Bricks, came out last year.

Artwork by Sam Keshishian