Kerri Shying R # 25 Tinderbox

Tinderbox.

All the children in her stories have slapped cheeks - bums that wooden spoons break on. Laughter finds a restless perch.

Mum tied Dad up while he slept but just his hands. Me and my sister, we watched giggling from the front porch as he ran up and down the street after her. Furious hearts beating, helpless tears flowing.

Run mum.

Your Nanna was the class clown, did you know that? Our stories mark like chicken pox. Add another decade add another decade; the scars stir to shingles.

How long are you dead before we throw away the x-rays? The last thing on the fire, “though you could always see right through him” says Aunty. Our childhoods steam like live coals gripped in our old girls’ hands. Once unlucky always unlucky, comes mum’s voice singing out through the fumes. All the children, Captain Thunderbolt to Cocky Lora.

All our children, Dukes of Hazzard to Pokemon.

Warm-handed and alive the little girls have learned to tune us out.

Foul seeds of a bitter forest, coughing in his stink together.

She hit me with a paper wasp Nanna.

 I’ll give you paper wasp. You fight her and I’ll fight the winner.