Triptych by Cath Barton
Boy, Five (I)
In the cemetery the day was too still. I could hear insects sucking, birds’ feathers stirring, the white marble of the statues breathing. As if she felt my gaze, the white-clad woman turned her blind eyes towards me. She blinked once, hard, and for a moment the boy was between us and running towards her. Afterwards I walked over to the grave where she stood sentinel: the boy had died aged five years and five days.
Boy, Five (II)
At the end of a street never before walked down, I visited a museum never before heard of. The curator said how good it was to have visitors, so few people knew of the place. I entered a candlelit kitchen from which a child had just slipped out, leaving his egg half-eaten, his cup of milk still warm. The curator snapped on the light; I saw the dust and ancient stains; behind him the child put a finger to his lips.
Boy, Five (III)
It had rained for five days. Ever since the boy’s birthday, I thought. They were still looking for him, but no-one had mentioned his birthday. In the swollen brown river debris bumped downstream: torn branches of trees, twisted metal and bulky, shapeless things. I felt a tug on the hem of my coat and a small cold hand slipped into mine. The small hand of a five year old boy. Then he was dragged away, by the river.
Previously published in Short, Fast, and Deadly
In the cemetery the day was too still. I could hear insects sucking, birds’ feathers stirring, the white marble of the statues breathing. As if she felt my gaze, the white-clad woman turned her blind eyes towards me. She blinked once, hard, and for a moment the boy was between us and running towards her. Afterwards I walked over to the grave where she stood sentinel: the boy had died aged five years and five days.
Boy, Five (II)
At the end of a street never before walked down, I visited a museum never before heard of. The curator said how good it was to have visitors, so few people knew of the place. I entered a candlelit kitchen from which a child had just slipped out, leaving his egg half-eaten, his cup of milk still warm. The curator snapped on the light; I saw the dust and ancient stains; behind him the child put a finger to his lips.
Boy, Five (III)
It had rained for five days. Ever since the boy’s birthday, I thought. They were still looking for him, but no-one had mentioned his birthday. In the swollen brown river debris bumped downstream: torn branches of trees, twisted metal and bulky, shapeless things. I felt a tug on the hem of my coat and a small cold hand slipped into mine. The small hand of a five year old boy. Then he was dragged away, by the river.
Previously published in Short, Fast, and Deadly
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Cath Barton is an English writer who lives in Wales. Winner, New Welsh Writing Awards AmeriCymru Prize for the Novella 2017 and 2nd place in the Dorset Fiction Award, October 2017. Stories in The Lonely Crowd, Fictive Dream, Spelk and more. Regular contributor to Wales Arts Review. https://cathbarton.com/ Tweets @CathBarton1
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