Eventually the hurricane lamps dim. There is wallpaper on the walls here, flocked and faded, carbon-streaked, fingerprinted. Soot powder dancing girls as soft as mandala sand flutter lacy fans
fells a leaning tower.
Ellis drains the last of her bowl, pushes its petal-edge to the centre of the table and tugs her shirt sleeve back over the worn patch of skin.
The boy, her beloved careful secret keeper wore a similar mark. His name in uneven typewriter, tapped out onto faded cardstock the same grey as tombstones. Filed away, manila-folded and stored.
Box babies. Organized by the nurses of Digbeh Hill.
but I’m pretty happy with them.
all I lack is urgency, but maybe i can add that in later?