Burntwood
       

We smelt of the vinegar that used to
be put into bottles by our granddads in
the factory near the park where Mad Mandy
slapped a school girl and then returned to her
favourite swing. Our scent was in the air; it made
strange chemicals with the perfumes of the
women in the Old Mining College on
the night that the rival school was burnt down
by arsonists and when, a few weeks
later, they set light to our Sports Hall, so
that we also knew what it was like to
undress ourselves in metal boxes. The
stories received ten-second segments on
the local news. My sister watched and cried.

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Copyright © 2017 Jenna Clake All rights reserved
from Fortune Cookie
Eyewear Publishing
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission