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A Handful

Flash in the Pan| Views: 237

Tickling and gooey, soft and tasty, my finger dug into the raspberry pie and clogged its tiny nail full of juicy devilishness. Mom was too far away to screech. Chubby and pink, it scratched the plastic plate, trying to learn how to flick. It stuck in the jelly, squirmed and managed to splash it onto the floor. Mom squealed from the doorframe. The sticky finger tried again, digging into the soggy mush until it splattered the tiles like a colourful tear seeping out the door. Mom came running and gobbled me up. I loved her so.

Itching with hunger, it delved upwards into a nostril, sucked out nourishment and held it up for inspection. It poked the morsel between damp lips, then pried them apart and delved into the sticky cavern. It scratched around the teeth for morsels of solitude, tangled strings of rotting meat. It had a life of its own. Mom slapped it away. Her hands were all soft and doughy, but she wasn’t smiling.

Delicate and firm, all writhing and tense, it wound its way around purse strings, lifting but not shopping. It didn’t leave a print.

The lights from the open window spun dusty cobwebs of intrigue, while the wayward digit fingered dark recesses, sweet slithering pleasures it hadn’t known existed. It curled and hooked, wriggled in pleasure until it twisted my whole body around its withering axis.

Manicured, dressed up for adventure, the finger tapped the steering wheel. It rose slowly in salute, then stood up in insolent contempt. Horns raged. It told them firmly where to shove it.

Mom was far away, out of reach. She was beyond beckoning.

The finger jabbed and poked until the eyeball popped out with a splat. It delved into the bloody hollow that had once been a mind, and egged out the remaining goo until the features no longer bore the reminder of a face.

Skin raw and sore. The itching never stops. The finger darts and tangles, leading me astray. I try to grasp it, but it wiggles away like butter melting in my clasp. Words cling to the nail like snot, then drip to the floor lifelessly, with a plop. I miss mom so much. She’s no longer here to pick up the mess.

It’s wagging and jabbing, telling me who I am, what to do. It’s hard to recognise it as my own. And now, there are ten of them, gathering into fists to leave me bruised and bloodied. Defenseless, I stare at my toes and wonder how high I can make them kick, what I’d have to do to bring mom back.

E. F. S. Byrne works in education and writes when his teenage kids allow it. He blogs a regular micro flash story. Links to this and over fifty published pieces can be found at efsbyrne.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @efsbyrne

438 words.


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