With a flick of the brush the jaundiced morning sky is complete. I have smartened our
rags, smoothed the water and painted allies, not thieves, to make it more palatable for
richer parlours.
I trace my hands’ silvery scars, remembering the flash of iridescent scales as the fish
thrashed about our feet in the boat, my palms stinging as the net sliced into soft skin
while we tugged and pulled the wriggling weight on board. Samuel and his brother
hadn’t fared so well even with their sails taking them further out, but they still claimed
half our catch for ‘steadying our boat.’ Pa had given me that look – the same one he
gave me when I told him I preferred the smell of oils and turpentine to fish and brine.
Painting my name with pride, I accept the growl of my stomach as penance for my
shame.
Jan is an avid gardener, reader and crafter who loves tiny tales.
This story was shortlisted in the September 24 Monthly Micro Competition.