Abby stood before her bathroom mirror, staring at her reflection. The corners were still foggy.
She tilted her head right, then left, then back to the middle. She smiled. Her reflection smiled.
Then the reflection’s head tilted down, eyes fixed on Abby. The grin widened and crooked, stretching too far. The bridge of its nose scrunched up. The eyes narrowed.
Abby turned and left the house. The reflection stayed, its wicked smile frozen on the glass.
Outside, her neighbor’s laundry fluttered in the sun. Abby reached into her bag and took out a pair of scissors.
Clip-clip. She snipped and skipped away, chunks of fabric littering the ground.
The milkman’s bicycle was parked by the curb, crates stacked high with bottles. Abby looked around, then gave a quick shove.
Crash! Milk splashed across the road, painting it white. The milkman and shopkeeper rushed outside, bewildered.
No one in sight.
Abby ran past her middle school. The headteacher’s van and three school buses gleamed in the sun. She took out her penknife.
Slash went the tires. In the reflection of a side mirror, her evil twin nodded her head in approval.
Abby skipped away, humming a nursery rhyme.
“Up went the seagull,
Down went the sun,
Smile, little mirror,
Your day’s just begun.”
She passed the candy shop. The owner, Miss Brown, was speaking to her assistant.
“Pack the ice pops properly this time. And spray the bugs. They’re becoming a menace.”
Abby lifted the cooler lid. Rows of ice pops, neat and cold. Beside them, a can of bug spray.
Ssssss! Ssssss! She sprayed, careful not to be heard, then closed the lid and skipped away.
At the tailor’s shop, new fabrics had just been delivered. Soft. Clean. Starchy. Abby trailed her fingers along the rolls. Then she struck a match.
By the time she turned the corner, smoke billowed in the air.
At the minimart, workers moved behind a steel door. Abby waited for her moment.
Clang! The door shut and she turned the metal bar, locking them in.
“Hey! We’re still in here!” one shouted.
Her only answer was laughter.
Skippity-hop she danced away.
Past the chemist, she shuffled trays of medical samples on the counter. The door creaked. She slipped out. The curtain swayed behind her like a goodbye.
At Miss White’s yard, she peered into the chicken coop. Tiny chicks pecked at their feed. Abby grinned and unlatched the door.
In moments, the yard erupted in fluttering chaos.
As she walked home, she sucked on a lollipop. The spilled milk had dried to chalky streaks. The shopkeeper’s trays of eggs sat stacked by the door. Abby quietly slid them so they’d topple when the door opened then hurried upstairs before her mother returned.
“Abby,” her mum called, entering the room. “How’s my little jailbug?” She felt Abby’s forehead. “Still warm. You’re staying home tomorrow.”
Abby nodded, pretending to be drowsy.
“By the way,” her mum continued, “the shopkeeper had a bad day. First the milk, now the eggs. And Miss White’s chicks ran wild again. I’ll draft a note for your teacher. Get your homework ready.”
When the door clicked shut, Abby threw off her blankets and tiptoed to the mirror. Her reflection was waiting, arms folded.
“So,” Abby whispered, “how did I do? I went round the whole neighborhood this time.”
The reflection stared back, then began to clap. Silent, slow, deliberate.
“Same time tomorrow?”
It nodded.
Abby smiled and reached for her nursery rhyme book.
Yvonne Aore is a speculative fiction writer whose work explores the intersections of memory, sacrifice, and the unseen forces shaping human lives. Her stories often blend grounded emotional realities with elements of the surreal and the uncanny. She has been published or is forthcoming in Brittle Paper, The Kalahari Review, Writers Space Africa, and Lolwe. She is currently working on longer projects that continue to examine the quiet costs of love, survival, and belief.
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