it.
The son shrugged and opened the door.
Inside, lying across the counter, was a gray crocodile wearing a tan sweater.
Bleachy, the mother wrote.
“Dang it,” the father said.
“I knew you weren’t a cat,” the son said.
The mother stared at the wet pencil shavings littered along the crocodile’s skin and tried to understand.
“I got stuck halfway,” Bleachy said. “I had to come back up or I would drown.”
I’m sorry, the mother wrote. I understand how you feel.
Bleachy lurched forward and locked his jaws around her throat and pulled up, dislodging her head. The son ran downstairs, listening from under a pile of kitchen trash as his father screamed, and then gurgled, and then fell silent.
The son eventually fell asleep, still wearing his oxygen mask. He dreamed of stepping on dry leaves, when actually his brain was trying to warn him that Bleachy was munching his way toward the son. When Bleachy had eaten all the trash in the corner, he rested his nose on the son’s knee.
The son awoke with a gasp.
“Don’t worry,” Bleachy said, “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Please don’t kill me,” the son said.
“Listen to me,” Bleachy said. “I’m not going to kill you. You’ve made some poor choices, but you’re young. You still have time to change.”
“Where’s my dad?” the son asked.
“How would you like it if there was a big tube that poured someone else’s trash on your house?” Bleachy said. “How would you like it if I took you away and made you cough in my toilet?”
Bleachy placed his teeth around the son’s calf and bit down until he felt the bone underneath. The son cried out, looking at the new holes in his leg, his eyes cracked like crayon. The jaws came unclamped without a sound, and Bleachy turned and crawled away, out of the house, still wearing the son’s tan sweater. Filled with a feeling that was almost sorrow, Bleachy lifted his long gray head and breathed in deep, hoping to find a scent that would remind him of home.
STINKY GIRL
Hiromi Goto
Hiromi Goto’s first novel, Chorus of Mushrooms (1994), received the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book in the Caribbean and Canada region and was co-winner of the Canada-Japan Book Award. Her YA/Crossover novel, Half World (2009), was long-listed for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and received the 2010 Sunburst Award and the Carl Brandon Society Parallax Award.
One is never certain when one becomes a stinky girl. I am almost positive I wasn’t stinky when I slid out from between my mother’s legs, fresh as blood and just as sweet. What could be stinkier, messier, grosser than that? one might be asked. But I’m certain I must have smelled rich, like yeast and liver. Not the stink of I-don’t-know-what which pervades me now.
Mother has looked over my shoulder to see what I am trying to cover up with my hand and arm, while I meditatively write at the kitchen table.
“Jesus!” she rolls her eyes like a whale. “Jesus Christ!” she yells. “Don’t talk about yourself as ‘one’! One what, for God’s sake? One asshole? One snivelling stinky girl?” She stomps off. Thank goodness. It’s very difficult having a mother. It’s even more difficult having a loud and coarse one.
Where was I? Oh yes. I am not troubled by many things. My size, my mother, my dead father’s ghost, and a pet dog that despises me do not bother me so very much. Well, perhaps on an off day, they might bring a few tears to my eyes, but no one will notice a fat stinky mall rat weeping. People generally believe that fatties secrete all sorts of noxious substances from their bodies. But regardless. The one bane of my life, the one cloud of doom which circumscribes my life is the odour of myself.
There’s no trying to pinpoint it. The usual sniff under the armpits or cupping of palms in front of my mouth to catch the smell of my breath is like trying to scoop an iceberg with a goldfish net. And it’s not a simple
The son shrugged and opened the door.
Inside, lying across the counter, was a gray crocodile wearing a tan sweater.
Bleachy, the mother wrote.
“Dang it,” the father said.
“I knew you weren’t a cat,” the son said.
The mother stared at the wet pencil shavings littered along the crocodile’s skin and tried to understand.
“I got stuck halfway,” Bleachy said. “I had to come back up or I would drown.”
I’m sorry, the mother wrote. I understand how you feel.
Bleachy lurched forward and locked his jaws around her throat and pulled up, dislodging her head. The son ran downstairs, listening from under a pile of kitchen trash as his father screamed, and then gurgled, and then fell silent.
The son eventually fell asleep, still wearing his oxygen mask. He dreamed of stepping on dry leaves, when actually his brain was trying to warn him that Bleachy was munching his way toward the son. When Bleachy had eaten all the trash in the corner, he rested his nose on the son’s knee.
The son awoke with a gasp.
“Don’t worry,” Bleachy said, “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Please don’t kill me,” the son said.
“Listen to me,” Bleachy said. “I’m not going to kill you. You’ve made some poor choices, but you’re young. You still have time to change.”
“Where’s my dad?” the son asked.
“How would you like it if there was a big tube that poured someone else’s trash on your house?” Bleachy said. “How would you like it if I took you away and made you cough in my toilet?”
Bleachy placed his teeth around the son’s calf and bit down until he felt the bone underneath. The son cried out, looking at the new holes in his leg, his eyes cracked like crayon. The jaws came unclamped without a sound, and Bleachy turned and crawled away, out of the house, still wearing the son’s tan sweater. Filled with a feeling that was almost sorrow, Bleachy lifted his long gray head and breathed in deep, hoping to find a scent that would remind him of home.
STINKY GIRL
Hiromi Goto
Hiromi Goto’s first novel, Chorus of Mushrooms (1994), received the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book in the Caribbean and Canada region and was co-winner of the Canada-Japan Book Award. Her YA/Crossover novel, Half World (2009), was long-listed for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and received the 2010 Sunburst Award and the Carl Brandon Society Parallax Award.
One is never certain when one becomes a stinky girl. I am almost positive I wasn’t stinky when I slid out from between my mother’s legs, fresh as blood and just as sweet. What could be stinkier, messier, grosser than that? one might be asked. But I’m certain I must have smelled rich, like yeast and liver. Not the stink of I-don’t-know-what which pervades me now.
Mother has looked over my shoulder to see what I am trying to cover up with my hand and arm, while I meditatively write at the kitchen table.
“Jesus!” she rolls her eyes like a whale. “Jesus Christ!” she yells. “Don’t talk about yourself as ‘one’! One what, for God’s sake? One asshole? One snivelling stinky girl?” She stomps off. Thank goodness. It’s very difficult having a mother. It’s even more difficult having a loud and coarse one.
Where was I? Oh yes. I am not troubled by many things. My size, my mother, my dead father’s ghost, and a pet dog that despises me do not bother me so very much. Well, perhaps on an off day, they might bring a few tears to my eyes, but no one will notice a fat stinky mall rat weeping. People generally believe that fatties secrete all sorts of noxious substances from their bodies. But regardless. The one bane of my life, the one cloud of doom which circumscribes my life is the odour of myself.
There’s no trying to pinpoint it. The usual sniff under the armpits or cupping of palms in front of my mouth to catch the smell of my breath is like trying to scoop an iceberg with a goldfish net. And it’s not a simple
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