Child, barefoot on warm tiles. Go. Tumble through the flyscreen. Be brave. Lose   nothing, a small piece of skin grazed off a big toe. Take five steps to the scraping gate. Stare at the tight gap. Kick against the planks. Push through. Don’t look back at her, a mother sweeping the crumbs. Shove it aside. Him, a man rising, his grubby rubber boots standing upright on the doormat.

Sweep your fingers along moss-covered walls. Keep your eyes wide open, close them tightly, open again. Everything anew. Do what the darkness does. Wash away. Dispel. There’s the sun. Move. Quick steps, with arms outstretched towards the light, find the passage to the street. Press against the wall. Wait and watch as streaks seep between the gaps of the pockmarked tiles. Tilt your head, see the house as it was. Freshly painted, the color of stars. Daddy on a stepladder, lifting you to see the nest. Look and feel like the wings, like the shields soft, like the diamond mouths of brothers and sisters wide and open.

A baby calls. A chick, pale dots on its beak. Infinitely far from its nest, its substate woven of branch over branch, of moss and grass and mother. Stare at its black glistening eyelids, unopened but large. Gently push the skin, find no one home, the rooms bare. Caress with soft fingers softer fuzz. Pick up. Hold tight. Plant silent kisses along its head, sense the vibration. Feel the hollow, and view, a house abandoned.

Trees bend, birds fall, naked and pink. It’s time to leap. Slide along the walls, jump, break, be reckless, a freshly laid egg towards the ground. Scream. Shriek. No. Listen. Try again. Be quit, like rustling feathers, like water flowing away from the passage, away from the closing gate, the shoes, the boots. Further along. Faster along. Keep running with a palm against the mouth, trampling feet, a chick against the chest. Listen to the soft chirps. The bouncing soles. A mother’s cry.

Hide around a corner, a second one. Stop. Take a breath. Slither past the bushes with the rats;  they’d fancy sparrow chicks, children, high on their tippytoes. The main road sticks, stinks. Remember? Still, persevere, press the painful one into the asphalt, feel the wound, in a minute, an hour, an eternal moment. And cross. Ignore the mothers calling, this morning, every morning. Watch the sun burn, see the moss grow. Flatten it. Wonder how silently grubby boots crush. Unnoticed. How high birds build their nests.

Turn around. Lean back. Cover your ears. Can you still hear it? The soft sounds, no ripples.         Deafening. Heedless. A house in fright. Try to tune out the noise, the startled floorboards, the whistling wind through gaps and cracks. Smell the sweat. Realize time’s up. Go back. Give back. Be the child with feet so bare, a chick held high. Reach for the nest. Stretch. Climb the stepladder. Bear the squeeze, the push, the spin over the edge. Nothing was promised. Lay down between the branches, the feathers. Close your eyes. Blink. See the home, how it was. Bounce back through the flyscreen, stumble over crumbs, the boots upright. Slip but not fall. Live on in moments, hover, wait, vow to once more spreading newborn wings.

Fly.

Marcelle Stoutjesdijk

Marcelle Stoutjesdijk (1985) is a Dutch writer and editor. Her fiction has appeared in various magazines, including Five on the Fifth, Hollands Maandblad, DW B and Kluger Hans. Residing in Delft for the moment, she is currently focused on crafting her first novel.

childhood danger fable nature responsibility tenderness