Short Fiction 1 min In competition

Like the Cyanide in Cherry Pits

Aashka Patel

When I am five, I listen to my brother stomp about the house —

everything he does sounds angry.

When I am twelve, I watch my father kiss my mother's fingers;

in his eyes, a strange mixture of malice and reverence.

She has just opened her mouth

— the world will burn because of it.

When I am fifteen, my sister feeds me cherries;

she sticks her tongue between pink, stained lips, and shows me how

to tie the stem into a knot with my tongue.

How I crave the shy abuse of men.

I hold the knot between my lips like an offering —

he bade me sing like Parthenope.

But should the stem fall,

the world may burn.

In competition

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Like the Cyanide in Cherry Pits

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