Matchsticks
By Carys Goodwin
A small flicker was all it took for you to lose your nerve and drop the match. It tumbled, the flame threatening to die, before it landed on a welcoming bed of cardboard and ignited. But you didn't care. For a small bump was growing on your chubby finger, pink, marred by little horizontal lines. Your eyes widened and tears formed at the corners; the pretty fire-show blurring as fat, salty blobs trickled down your nose.
'MUMMY!' you screamed, your mouth like an upside down moon, a lone front tooth the only distraction from the cavity where a frantic orchestra began on the upbeat; a shrieking threnody for your poor, little finger.
You couldn't understand why mummy ignored you and immediately attended to the bright colours that had spread across the curtain. You felt it should be made clearer why you called. 'Mummy, my fingie!' She didn't even turn her head. The nerve! Instead she was focused on the curtains, which were now being tenderly caressed by the flame, as though long fingers were stroking the fabric, comforting, whispering 'shhh, it's okay'.
Screwing up your face, you began to scream; an awful screeching sound octaves above your normal range. Finally, you got your mother's attention. 'Be quiet! Be quiet or the house will burn down!' Shocked, you closed your mouth and pouted, before waddling away, thinking, 'Where is my bwue cwayon? Mummy hates it when I make pwetty pick-chuhs on the wall. I fink I'll dwraw a horsey.'
Ah, revenge. It's so sweet.
- - -
My name is Carys (rhymes with Paris), and I’m a seventeen year old New Zealander. One day, I’m going to be famous. I start university in exactly one week, to do a joint degree in Law and Politics.
By Carys Goodwin
A small flicker was all it took for you to lose your nerve and drop the match. It tumbled, the flame threatening to die, before it landed on a welcoming bed of cardboard and ignited. But you didn't care. For a small bump was growing on your chubby finger, pink, marred by little horizontal lines. Your eyes widened and tears formed at the corners; the pretty fire-show blurring as fat, salty blobs trickled down your nose.
'MUMMY!' you screamed, your mouth like an upside down moon, a lone front tooth the only distraction from the cavity where a frantic orchestra began on the upbeat; a shrieking threnody for your poor, little finger.
You couldn't understand why mummy ignored you and immediately attended to the bright colours that had spread across the curtain. You felt it should be made clearer why you called. 'Mummy, my fingie!' She didn't even turn her head. The nerve! Instead she was focused on the curtains, which were now being tenderly caressed by the flame, as though long fingers were stroking the fabric, comforting, whispering 'shhh, it's okay'.
Screwing up your face, you began to scream; an awful screeching sound octaves above your normal range. Finally, you got your mother's attention. 'Be quiet! Be quiet or the house will burn down!' Shocked, you closed your mouth and pouted, before waddling away, thinking, 'Where is my bwue cwayon? Mummy hates it when I make pwetty pick-chuhs on the wall. I fink I'll dwraw a horsey.'
Ah, revenge. It's so sweet.
- - -
My name is Carys (rhymes with Paris), and I’m a seventeen year old New Zealander. One day, I’m going to be famous. I start university in exactly one week, to do a joint degree in Law and Politics.
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