Migrants, by Peter Morford

“Migrants? Don't talk to me about migrants,” said the man on the bench by the lake.  “They’re a menace.”

          He carried on. I mean he carried on. “Telford used to be a nice place. Now it’s nearly as bad as Wolverhampton and Birmingham.. Overrun by aliens, foreigners and squatters.  And don’t think you’re safe in Bridgnorth.”  He glared at me as if it was my fault.

          “This used to a nice place when I was a lad. Now look at it. They’re everywhere.  And don’t think you’ll get away with it in Bridgnorth. Just you wait. You’ve only seen the first of ’em.”

          I agreed.

          “Someone must have invited the first ones. They must have come thousands of miles to be here. They used to leave, seasonally, but not anymore. And just look at the mess they make. They take more than their fair share of food and they give nothing in return. They’re scavengers. I hate them and they don’t belong here. They breed worse than rabbits and we can’t send them away.     There’s only one way to stop them- population control.”

          “How?” I asked.

          “Abort the young of course. I know it’s against the law, but what the Judge doesn’t see.”   He tapped the side of his nose as if expecting that I would understand.

          “How?” I said, repetitively.

          “With this spike,” he said, as he pierced the egg and let the contents pour into the lake.

          The mother Canada Goose honked in protest but it was too late.  One less.