0~ Zebulon
He grabs onto her finger. He pulls. He’s testing her trustworthiness so intently she begins to
doubt it herself. His little eyes are closed, slight twitch indicating blinks. His eyes are closed
but they are searching within her. Is she safe? Will she provide? Is she his? She would
scream to the tiny figure head rested on her chest if they were truly alone. She is his! He is
hers! The tent flap rustles and she’s frigid. A shadow stalks across the back wall. The baby’s
father is coming. She has a sudden urge to hide him but renders it futile. He knows. He
always knows.
1~ Kamille
Forlorn banners swing above a dingy, dimly lit cot. The baby lies awake when he comes
through the window, yet it does not cry. The floorboards creak; he stops. The floorboards
stop; he creeps. A finger reached out to tickle her chin is met by whimpers. It’s a too small
cot with too small sheets so he lifts her out, her pudgy arms flailing until he sets her down.
She walks with unsteady steps at first. Then she gains confidence, falling back before rising
and falling forwards; siren-like wailing prompts him to put a hand over her mouth and shush
her, his eyes darting. Should he go back through the window? He should, but instead he
pulls off her cap, surveying the damage. Her scalp is a livid welted mess, tufts of hair
ruthlessly sheared too close to skin. The door creaks open and silence is broken:
‘Get away from the child.’
2~ Katrin
She slipped the drab brown petticoat up and around her legs. The banal sepia hat came on
next before matte sienna shoes. These were not clothes a 2-year-old would typically wear
but then again, it was not a typical day. Perhaps they were symbols of the steps into
adulthood the girl would shortly take, steps that would come too soon, limiting childhood.
Though it was obvious, selling a child in exchange for her life, the presupposed morality
became fuzzier and less defined as the girl grinned at herself in the mirror with youthful
delight.
‘Ready?’ Her grandmother asked.
‘Ready.’ It was a lie decietful even to the speaker.
3~ Marvin
There’s a squeak and the door opens. The blind boy potters about the kitchen. From an
amrchair, a man watches him. Then he closes his eyes. The hearth crackles and roars, the
heat curling around him. A few minutes later there’s a clink of coffee, no milk nor sugar, by
his side. Wood squeaking against the floor signifies the opening of the pantry door, making
way to whispers of butter being slathered on bread and then a hunk of bread and butter is by
his side too. He dips it in his coffe, the only sound a slight splash. The boy yelps. His father
opens his eyes. The three-year-old’s burned himself. His father closes his eyes, reclines.
Shortly, there is the rushing of cold water.