Luanne Castle’s art appears in Best of Mad Swirl’s 2023 anthology. Her Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net-nominated writing has appeared in Copper Nickel, Ekphrastic Review, Dribble Drabble Review, Roi Fainéant, Flash Boulevard, and many other journals. Twitter/X: @writersitetweet IG: @catpoems FB: @luanne.castle https://www.luannecastle.com/
I'm Not Thinking About
Fiction by Heather D Haigh
a miserable, down-in-the-mouth, slump-shouldered, feet-dragging, hands twisting, gut churning, dragon—who's forgotten how to sing—forgotten how to fly—forgotten how to make fire—because she's forgotten how to breathe.
She's not thinking about an itch below her shoulder blade—an itch she dare not scratch—for if she succumbs it festers; if it festers it spreads; if it spreads, the walls close in and down and down, and the roof crumbles. She'll hunch tighter and smaller, as tight and small as can be, but still, she'll feel the gaps—the tender gaps—between her scales, where gritty scree can lodge, and where it lodges it chaffs, and where it chaffs it burns, and the burn begins to itch.
We're not thinking about the hunger in our belly—a hunger we thought we'd shut away. A hunger re-ignited when, along with the gold for his coffers, she brought her bonus—brought a ticket to fly—brought dreams. A hunger he instantly quelled.
Oftentimes, I can scarcely recall the creature who basked in golden sunlight, allowing it to dance upon her armour, watching it glitter, revelling in the warmth—a creature who knew the pull of the mountains, the call of the oceans—believed the skies were hers.
We're not thinking about an Amarok who slunk into her life, with silken chains made iron—with glint of moonlight on canines—the one who showed her he could bite. We're not dwelling on how his claws dig deep and his words burrow deeper. How she learned to cool her ichor. How she cowers and bares her throat. How she learned her name was Wyrm.
We're not obsessed with that itch. Don't yearn to probe and scritch, to dig and rip—until that nub—that long-forgotten nub—peeks out. Until tears trickle, skin splits, flesh yields. Until we bleed.
She doesn't shriek in triumph, as the slender tip breaks through, but when a tiny membranous structure unfurls—a flimsy reminder of something, something she can almost grasp—she examines it in the shadows and gasps a tiny breath.
We're not thinking about another itch. Another sliver of her—of us—of me. We're not thinking of unfolding those wings, of testing them, of holding them out to the midnight air. We're not thinking of a song beneath the stars, of greeting the sky with fire and thunder, of a time when we might soar.
Over in the corner, the Amarok grunts. I fetch him fresh beer. For a moment—a moment that might span a heartbeat or might span a lifetime—while that itch is screaming, is howling, is shrilling—I will hold my breath, and think nothing at all.
Heather D Haigh is a sight-impaired spoonie and emerging working-class writer from Yorkshire. Her work has been published by Fictive Dream, The Phare, Free Flash Fiction and others. She has won competitions with New Writers and Globe Soup and has been nominated for Best of the Net. Twitter/X: @HeatherBookNook IG: @heatherbooknook FB: @Heatherbooknook https://haigh19c.wixsite.com/heatherbooknook