Daughter of Tato

It was not long ago, in the hidden town of Boro Boro…

that there lived an innocent, a child born to Tato. Her skin was the colour of flax, newly sprouted. Her skin as silk as ash, newly spread. (No one really knew her, she was a private person.) She spent her time with the birds of the black plain and the tiny animals of the air. She was alone in the world, since her mother had died in the giving. And her father had shattered his heart in the cast grain. One morning, before dawn, when she still fitted the palm.

In kid-skin, her breasts still new, she would seek out the damaged site. Call forth the forgotten power. She would chant the words that were not to be chanted. And kneel in the dust that is not to be kneeled in. She would prostrate herself before gods that were shriven. She would prostitute herself to the bleeding rain. She would know her father and her mother, in the thrashing of her god.

But the air was thick with a generation of uncast tears. And she feared she would inhale knives. The sun at the peak was a white gun. She lay on shard. She felt herself fry. She breathed in dry heat. Her lungs filled with sand. And the parting was a slow scratching and drag, not the fresh slicing of pain.

Then it rained. And she felt steam. And she thought herself that she would evaporate to the sky.

And she crept back to the village. No longer a girl with flax for her hair. She was scared of the creatures who knew her name. She crawled, and her belly grew raw. And she wept tears of stone.

Daughter of Tato


Joined January 2008

  • Artist


short story

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