I’ve masturbated twice already today, so play Wordle for a bit because it gives me something else to do with my hands
A Hermit Crab Fiction by Mairead Robinson
I begin with HEART, so many times broken, only just in one piece since the last one swiped the floor with me, left. I’m good for A, yellow for the H and E.
I go for WHALE; I’m one, beached, I heard him say to his friends. I’ve struggled for years, tried every kind of diet, but despite there being so much of me, I never was enough. H is in the right place, so is E.
CHASE. Melanie, nine stone six, told me I should go for someone my own size. And, y’know, there are chubby-chasers out there. She grins, teeth like blades. H, A and E are all green. S, like me, is out of place.
My mother called me Rubenesque. ‘Not fat, my darling, you’re curvaceous.’ But she’s no longer here. When she died, I ate and ate, to staunch the tears. I try SHAPE, as if I had one. Four letters green, no P.
SHAKE. For months, I’d tremble in a public place, stomach twisting, heart racing, gasped breath. The doctor rolled his eyes, suggested exercise. It’s not K.
I try my best. Walk every day, sometimes swim, but I’ve stopped dating. Where men are concerned, it’s be a stick, or just a quick fuck; there’s a weight limit on love. I type SHAME, all correct, and so heavy inside me.
This story was the third prize winner in the 2024 WestWord Hermit Crab Prize.
Author: Mairead Robinson lives in the South West, UK. She has been placed in competitions with Bath FFA, The Propelling Pencil, The Molotov Cocktail (Flash Monster) and WestWord. Her flash fiction was recently shortlisted for The Bridport Prize, and can be found in a range of literary journals and anthologies.