MOTHER BIRD
Honey clung to my lips the day my mother gave me the egg,, a somber look in her eyes as she reached
forward with a finger softer than goose down and wiped the last of the honey off my cheeks,. Sticky amber sap
swallowed in my throat as she sat down across the table from me.
My dress clamped tightly on me, biting at my neck and and waist, stiff lace that felt more like horseshoes nailed
to my skin. I gave a restless wriggle, shoulders dismbermerbing as I squirmed, and stuck my honeycombed finger
in my mouth, gnawing on my nails as I stared up at my mother.
My mother reminded me of a statue that someone had begun shaping out of clay and then had gotten bored of
it and dumped it into a swamp, leaving her to soften and sink in on itself. Her face would sink in on itself when
she screamed, and I would always try not to cry, because she told me that the Rain Man would come and drink
the tears off my face if I did.
So, when her face sunk in, I would always hiccup and swallow the tears behind my teeth, covering my face just
in case the Rain Man decided to come anyway. The tears were always salty, like snail shells in my mouth . I
nervously toyed with the hem of my dress, the gentle rustling reminding me of a hummingbird drinking milk
from a saucer I left out on the windowsill each morning. I liked to dip my finger in the saucer when it was
drinking and suck the milk from my skin, pretending I was a mother feeding its child.
Mother would always eat her bread and butter, stick dirty fingers in the treacle jar and spill it over the bench,
leaving the ants to die among the tarry syrup; dead river full of grit legs. I would sit in my room with the
monster clawing at my stomach, dress tight around my hips, stockings stuck to my clammy feet. I would yell at
the monster in my stomach, threatening to cut it out of me if I didn’t go away. She would come in then, and
push something hard and powdery between my lips, softly tangling her fingers in my curls, whispering gently
and promising it would go away if I took my medicine like a good girl.
The monster was locked up when I woke up the next day, and my mother would come into strap me into my
dress, pulling the buttons against my neck, my skin catching in them, my hair curled so tightly I was convinced
she had planted trees in my head and their roots were growing inside my face.
My mother’s mouth quirked up into a strange, curious smile, like a frog stretching its mouth to catch a fly, and
she leaned forward over the table. Her hands appeared a moment later, her fingers tangled in folds of misshapen
velvet; like a wrinkled rock.
“I have a present for you,” she whispered, a mischievous lilt to her voice as she pushed the huddled cloth across
the table towards me.
I stared down at the crooked lump of cloth for a moment, the folds of it sliding over one another like lyrebirds
and snakes dancing with one another. I took a strangled breath, the bodice of my dress hugging my wooden
board chest, my piano key fingers hesitantly reaching towards the cloth. I would play piano on the curves of my
thighs when the sun rose, my voice singing along with the ivory keys in my skin until it became cracked and
hoarse, stammered and wavering in the reedy, late afternoon air. Curls stuck to my wet forehead, thighs chafing
together like raw logs in my stockings, knee joints glued together as I imagined water puddles flooding around
my feet. As much as I pulled at the collar and tugged at the buttons, nails cracked and splintered as I tried to find
lose threads to unravel; I could never get out of the dress. My mother strapped me into it and locked the door
after her, leaving me in my corn-starched sackcloth.
I was her doll, and she liked playing dress-up.
I dragged my eyes away from the lump on the table and stared at my mother, a pair of scissors in her hand as she
cut a chain of paper dolls, hacking away at them in jagged cuts. She dropped the scissors with a loud clatter on
the table, her grubby, mankled fingers trembling as she unfolded the it, a line of identical paper dolls unravelling
in her hands.
“What is it?” I finally asked, tugging my hair behind my ears, split bent straw hair matted on my neck; sundried
rags stuck to my skin.
My mother hummed gently - a warbled stutter that bent and cracked - before she answered, picking up the
scissors, blades slashed against each other as she began to cut the paper doll chain to pieces, humming her
strange, birdsong as she did, fingers pressing against fluttering paper.
“It’s a surprise - open it and see.”
I had stumbled through my room in the middle of the night, legs folding hard to the floor the same time I heard
the shatter of a rat trap biting my toes.
I fell against the wall, fumbling for the light switch as I wiped half sodden hands across my cheeks, eyes
widening as I saw my floorboards covered in herds of rat traps.
My mother told me I hadn’t been clever enough when she saw my bleeding feet the next morning, a sour
pickled disdain in her voice as she sliced apple pieces and fed them to the birds gathered on the doorstep.
I swallowed back the snail shells and cedarwood seeds in my throat, and pulled back the cloth.
Smooth, buttermilk cream shell, a box that wasn’t a box and a rock that could crack if you poked it.
“It’s an egg.” I said softly, a haze of delight caressing my voice the way my fingers traced the egg, finding no lines
or cracks. No way in, and no way out. How could anything ever escape?
A loud crack made me jump, the chair clattering on the floor as my mother pushed back, her face boiling and
looking like a hornet nest, her eyes crawled with ants.
Making mountains out of a molehill.
I once heard an old man mutter that, glass perched on his nose and an elephant hidden under his sweater, shoes
squeaking in the rain as he limped away. I picked the rain sodden newspaper out of the gutter, my too-tight
shoes filling with water as I’d read the front page. Ink smudged and oilskin wet pages tore through my fingers as
I read, “War has broken in Austria - Big Brother needs you!”
I asked her what war was after she ripped the paper from my hands and tossed it in the street, birds drowning in
gutters nearby.
“It’s when two people have secrets they don’t want to share and they play cops and robbers instead of chinese
whispers,” she had said firmly. Her hand stung my palm with her nails as she pulled me away, taking me to an
empty alleyway and telling me to talk to the shadows while she went to find a beehive. She bought it home with
her that night, honeycomb hoisted around her waist and bees swarming about my room. She ate the honey,
putting some in cracked glass jars, and fed me the bees, the queen bee sitting on her throne in my stomach, my
tongue swelled in my mouth.
I whispered to my dolls at night and didn’t tell anyone about the gun under my floorboards. I spat blood into
the teacups and invited them to a party, making them swear that they wouldn't tell mother. Tea cups clinked
together, and they all promised on their graves.
I stuffed one of my dolls with bullets and sawdust just in case, and sometimes slept with the gun between my
thighs, empty bullet barrel pushing into stomachflesh before sleep stole my eyes.
“It’s not just an egg!” Her voice cracked, nose heaving and flared like a pricked bull; hands fisted into wrinkled
stones, too old boulders that drooped with age. They’d have their graves, and I’d go and dance on them, forest
nymph feet bouncing on corpses.
I stifled a hiccup, swallowing back my tears from the Rain Man, and dropped my eyes to the egg again.
“What - what is it?”
My mother’s bullnose calmed, cheeks buttersoft and lips like wilted sunflowers. I would sometimes lean out my
window, stomach hugging the windowsill, and reach for the flowerbed below, grit my teeth as I yanked the
flowers out of the bed, dirt still stuck in hungry clumps to the roots; my fingers slathered in pollen as I stuffed
flower petals between my lips, buttercup syrup stems pricking my tongue.
They’d help the monster in my stomach go to sleep, and my belly would bulge out uncomfortably against my
dress, but the claws would go away as I slumped against the wall, stripped flower stems clutched in my hands.
My mother’s fists loosened, and she shrugged; black needle hair rustling over her shoulders as she tapped her
chin; her lips stretching slightly in a not - teeth smile.
“I don’t know. It has eyes, though.”
I snatched my fingers away from the egg hastily, as if were a hot coal, squeezing my eyes shut so I couldn’t see if
the strange I’m-not-an-egg thing really did have eyes.
My mother’s lips stretched further, until her mouth looked like it was filled with oily pearls, yellow sea salt grime
encrusted on them as she flashed her eyes to me, lids slanting down as she still tapped her chin, a grasshopper leg
mimic.
“It’s got teeth too - I saw them, I did.” she sang in her frog-bird voice, and I dared to look down at the egg (not
egg) again. The table was smooth; buffed lake shine under my palms as I pressed them onto the table, legs
swinging as I stared at the thing between the velveteen folds.
“Maybe we should feed it.”
Her sea teeth vanished behind her lips, folded together in a wrinkled line, neck stretched to the side, hair ragged
on her shoulder. Her voice rang out clear, an E flat pitch lilt in the air.
“That’s your job. It’s time for me to eat as well.”
I could feel the claws in my stomach skin, and I fisted my belly in my hands, frowning down at it as I pinched
my skin pink and bruised. My voice gurgled in my mouth, rubbed raw flintwood; cracked like my bedroom
windows.
“Can I - can I have some too?”
My stomach could only handle bees and sunflower petals for so long.
She shook her head, her skirts rustling under the table as her hands dipped underneath, her eyes fixed
unflinchingly on mine.
“Not this time.”
My cheeks flushed red, my fingers still pinching my dress covered stomach, knees sticking to the edge of the
chair, and I wondered if my head was going to fall onto my lap. It lolled, wet sand baked in my ears, weighing
down my head; cradled on my shoulder.
My mother reached over with one hand to lift my chin up, her fingers crab like on the slant of my neck. She
cupped my cheek; her hands like a bassinet as she tangled her fingers through my scarecrow hair.
“Don’t be scared now, hear me? You have to block your ears.” she coaxed me gently, grasping my hands and
placing them over my ears so the only thing I could hear was the sea inside my ears, waves lapping against my
eyes as she held my hands in place.
Hands still cupped over my ears, I watched as my mother reached under the table with a single hand, snake
quiver fingers wrapped around the barrel of a gun, dragging across scared wood as she fondled the trigger.
Fingers knotted through my matted, stale corkscrew curls, I watched as she swallowed the bullet, my mouth
collapsing like weak sugar candy; teeth grated with salt and lemon citrus rind. Gunmetal littered her cheeks, her
mouth swallowing the barrel like a fish swallowing bait, worm and all; hook line and sinker fastened around her
throat, her eyes rolled back in her head like milked marbles.
Nails biting my scalp so hard I saw shark teeth, I watched with my ankles locked around the banks of the chair,
my mother's head loll like a limp hairball, cough and choke and roll up your insides until they fill your mouth
with wiry, steel wool strands, cake your cheeks in fishnet tatters.
She ate the bullet whole, chewing and spitting gunpowder out her nose, cherried syrup pooling around her lips,
an ocean of it soaking into the table.
My hands fell away from my ears with a haggard gasp, bronchioles recoiling at the taste of honey-blood, bird
shell mess and syrup caking between my knuckles as my mother snapped, tree trunk neck and wilfy branch arms
arched out on the table, axe and gun stuck between the roof of her mouth and her teeth.
My arm snagged on the edge of the table as I caught my breath in my throat, asphyxiating at the syrup stench
tanging my eyes, nostrils flickering; my finger reached to dip in the syrup, wondering if it tasted like treacle.
I sucked my finger dry, pruning the nail bed and tasting salted metal in the back of my throat, gagging at the
brine.
The egg still lay between the folds of velvet, the edges of it soaked in the syrup bursting from my mother's
mouth, turning it limp seaweed black and eel skin wet. I pushed away the soaked, wet fabric, keeping my dry
hands away from the sopped up mess, and cradled the egg in my palms, curved beak fingers bowling the shell. I
was the mother bird, my stomach aching to feed my young, wanting to dig in the ground with ragged toes and
heels until I found the undergrowth, the secret hideout beneath the earth where I could bury my egg, keep it
safe from the claws and the bees.
The chair creaked under my thighs, splitting the silence into rifts and bolted lines that I settled myself into,
letting my shuddered, syrup breath warm the egg; my dress still burning my neck and holding me in place with
starched, flour baked folds, a stiff gingerbread dress that even the ants couldn't eat away.
"It's okay. You’ll be alright - I’ll keep you safe." I whispered, leaning forward until my nose almost brushed the
shell, warm shell tipping my skin, a shiver caught between my lips as my eyes fluttered shut for a moment,
nursing my young.
A skin cracking sound disturbed me, peeled back my lids with a start, pressing my tongue over my lips, clay dry
and oven hot as I watched my egg split at the seam, thread and needle curved round the shell, a gentle tremor in
my hand. A rattling sigh seeped through the egg, a sea saw wobble in the shell.
With my throat aching, and no honey left to soothe it, I watched with my heart galloping in my chest like
horses, hooves stampeding over my skin, the egg that fissured like the surface of an earthquake riddled earth, the
egg lurched in my palm as the cracks finally fell open.
Moths crawled out from beneath the shell, and I wrinkled my lips in confusion as they crept over my fingers; for
I had always thought that the bright gold came from eggs.
She did not tell me that moths came from eggs. Did everything come from eggs?
Was I, too, from an egg?
I could almost feel my own shell cracking, membrane stretching around my body and bones; wrinkled flesh
wavering.
The moth-skin fluttered against my parched fingers, my dress still biting and sucking at my wrists. The moths
poured out of the egg, the shell split open like broken geode stones, pieces of earth littering the table.
Muddy wings and charred stem-like bodies fastened themselves to my sleeves, flat scraps of wings fluttering
against my neck, nestled under my collarbone, corkscrewed between my knees.
I had once seen a swarm of moths fluttering around my sputtering light bulb in my room, dust clinging
floorboards under my stockinged feet as I hastily dried sticky tears from my face, combed my fingers through
gritty, swan matted hair. Their bodies had burnt up as they hit the lamp, their limp wings drifted to the floor.
What was in the light that they wanted so badly?
Were they even moths to begin with?
Holes began to appear in my dress, gaping cigarette clenched holes that tore the fabric away from my skin, dry
and red underneath, chaffed from clamped cotton and rotted lace, buttons clawed away from my chest, moths
biting through the rusted buttonholes and leaving my lobster’d skin free to the open air. I bent my elbows,
folded myself over at the waist; cotton fell away, skin revealed to the hungry air that wanted me.
The moths clung to the dress on the floor, gnawing through the cotton and thread.
The monster in my stomach was awakening.
Brushing past my mother, her hair floated around her face, her downturned face filled with snow and her arms
still flung about her like a straw doll, I reached for the broken shells; crunching the calcified membrane; cracked
pieces of earth sliding down my throat in jagged heaves; nothing like honey, certainly not treacle. I was not a bee,
after all. This was not my hive.
The moths had gorged themselves on my corn-starched dress, made themselves sick on gingerbread finery; and I
stepped across the floor, toes curling out nimbly from my flour-white stockings, thighs ribbed and wishbone
shaped as I pilfered the last of the eggshell between my teeth, tongue curling around splintered membrane.
I buckled to the ground, knees knocking the floorboards, arms bat-winged at my side as I knelt to pay my
respects to my saviors.
Eggshell grit caught in my mouth as I spoke, tongue swelled with honey as I whispered through egg pieces.
"Thank you," my voice choked slightly around the egg. If the bees had still been with me, they would have been
restless for honey. "Thank you for rescuing me. I will pay you well for what you have done."
The moth's' wings fluttered against the floorboards, sleepy and full of fibers and cotton; their wings tiger-striped
against the floor, sunlight baking them.
"No need." they seemed to whisper, their wings cracking in the sunlight; the floor opened up and stole them
beneath the cracks, "The debt has already been paid."
Police tape clawed its way around the shack, bricks cracked open and soft clay stuck to the edges; crusted over
with dead insects; split windows with fluorescent sun filtering in the basement room with a single wavering light
bulb. Police flooded the rooms, hands full of plastic bags and sniffing, growling dogs clawing at the floorboards.
"What you got there, boy?"
The dog barrelled towards the wiry man, nearly buffeting him in his eagerness, jaw lolling and his saber-teeth
hidden beneath skin-pink gums. Palms spread on his knees as he knelt towards the dog - Bernard - and it
dropped its prize to the mould covered floor below, wood cracking indignantly as Bernard sunk to the floor,
gold-blonde tail thumping, jaw still gaping with snuffled barks.
He gingerly picked up the strange, limp object from the floor below in his blue-gloved rubbered fingers, his
features smoothing over like a calm lake as he examined it.
Another officer appeared in the archway of the half-broken door leading to the kitchen. Her hand covered her
mouth, tired wisps of hair sagging in front of her ears, age spots littered her frail neck.
"What is that?" she said, her twig-thin brows twitching, a tone of mild curiosity and disgust evident in her aged
voice.
He stared at it for a while longer, Benard's happy tail thumping fading to a mere twitch, his stomach
tourniqueting his insides.
At last, he dragged his gaze towards her, away from the dead bug silent in his blue fingers.
"Moth."
Things to add or adjust
- Mention the father hanging himself
- Her mother forced her to take care of her dead baby brother for three years
- Her mother once poured sealing wax on her hand to keep her from getting lost
- The policeman at the end once had a horrible experience with moths and has a brief flashback of them
before the story ends
