‘Jewel Bearing’ by Adam Trodd
The undersides of leaves in wind flash like minnows in a pond. Panic of droplets. And she is gone. The fresh earth smells of worms; they anchor in it with bristly sides. Their only defence against the spade or the blackbird’s yellow stab-bolt. I close my eyes and wish Mama had eight hearts. Her whirring and clicking, so well-oiled and free. Sapphire eyes. A big golden cog for a heart that tick-tick-ticked. Me at the centre. Stopped now. Mechanism seized up. Granda said it all got clogged with grease and dirt and fluff. When he holds me I hear his parts rasping and bellows blow in and out beneath his softness. Oh there, there now my beautiful girl. I think the buttons of his shirt hold him together. He might be made of mostly straw. I am not fully built yet. My parts will wear out and be replaced until I am a full machine like Mama and Granda. He says we are alone for now but he can keep me fuelled up and covered and make sure I go to school. Tells me his tears will not rust him if he wipes them away quickly enough but sometimes I see them long and winding between the white spikes of his cheeks. When they put Mama in her wooden case for display, it was perfect for such a beautiful piece. Then they hid her in the ground to keep her safe. Granda said that one day she might start ticking again and daisies will grow slow-winding from her heart. I can pick them. Put them in my breast pocket. See if they take root.
From issue #8: spring/summer 2019
About the Author
Adam Trodd’s writing has appeared in The Incubator, Crannóg, Ellipsis and The Caterpillar as well as the National Flash Fiction Day and Bath Flash Fiction anthologies. He has been shortlisted for the Cúirt Prize and the Bath Flash Fiction Award, and is a winner of the Benedict Kiely Short Story Competition.
