We fought ants for mangoes along the jagged coastline
The hammock strung between coconut trees. The two-maybe-three-maybe-four-person spa; blood down a bread knife during a bonfire. The smell of rain against hot sand, rain mixed with saltwater, rain sticking to sunburnt skin. (The taste of rain; floral and fresh.) A midnight telephone call, a pinky-swear oath to never come back. The return, the return. The (inevitable) return. The sandpaper of cheap linen. Quarters plugged into coin slots. The whir of a laundromat dryer, the click of a payphone. The scratch of concrete against calluses, your calluses against my calluses. A pitchfork, a hammer, the scrape of a shovel digging. The clunk of an ice machine; its cubes against my nipples, cubes defrosted with warm breath, cubes to preserve and contain; frostbitten and frost-cured. The lonely echo over a rink at night, a lake at night, an endless void of darkness. The sweetness of stars stuck against a midnight canvas. The violent tug binding us together. Strawberry-red neon over breakfast at dark; coffee and garlic sausages and hot, sticky syrup.
's stories have appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Necessary Fiction, CHEAP POP
and elsewhere. Her work has been selected for Best Small Fictions and Wigleaf's Top 50 Very Short Fictions. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Pidgeonholes
. As well as her website, find her at @JenTod_