I’m not made of the correct fabric like everyone else. Like a Paper Mache lantern under a hot tap, bound for collapse, wilting at any breeze.
I hate your new moustache. It makes you look like a 1940s British general. Something Second World War-ish. “Tally ho master!” I say, with it pronounced ‘Mahhhstaah’, elongating the edges of the word while you look at me, expressionless.
Later that night, someone posts a picture on Facebook of a victim of a napalm attack, and before I can look away I see their arms and legs are long, red twigs of gore. I shake all night with the image burned into me, the phone was flung across the room as you tightly gripped my breech-baby form. You said: tremble and I’ll make you stable, the ripples will flatten out, eventually.
This was the way that it began.
Claire Storr is a 33 year old writer from Cumbria. After completing an MA in Photography in 2008, she worked as an editorial photographer for the likes of Faber and Faber and Macmillan alongside having exhibitions and writing poetry and prose in her spare time. Since then she has progressed into writing full time and has been published in various anthologies, magazines and newspapers. In 2018, she published a collection of short stories focusing on female characters living in Ireland called Tides. She lives with her husband and daughter in Carlisle, Cumbria.