Member-only story
Danse Macabre
Nostalgia in formalin
My little feet hurt when he pulled on them. I didn't see; he was trying to get me to grow faster. Only to grow. What he'd do, he used to grab my toes with belly-of-the-ocean claws, then tickle my soles with his feather-cap to make them wriggle. Myself, do the worm squirm. It sounds like a dance. All the strange things that happened to me do.
My mouth made an 'o' shape whenever I felt his scent in my lungs, so on the eve of my seventeenth, I dipped a needle in formalin and sewed my lips shut to keep out the birds. Interactions between two selves became much smoother after that, and with only my no-good words, the victim, née culprit, you could say it was a steal.
Blow hot and cold during serpentine walks along the deserted marina. When they left, mum-dad confessed they weren't sure if they were coming back. There was more to life than raising children, they said. And there was less to us than they'd hoped, so hey-ho. Still, they said look for us on the waterline each day at dusk, and we'll try to wave, so you know we've landed safe. Sure, that was years ago now.
One night, when I couldn't hide my tears quick enough, he brought out the speculum from his hack coat pocket and stepped up close to check for fleas behind my eyes. Ever since the Harms baby, he carries it everywhere in case of emergencies. Whenever…
