David Firth


Butterfingers perched despondently in his highchair. His slick, waist length hair cresting the seatback, a brunette film. His dirty face was streaked with tears. Once more the voice came, dulled by the heavy oaken door.

’Choody? Choody it’s me’. Butterfingers shivered, and not for the first time, or the last, wished he still had a mouth. ’Choody, please. Why don’t you answer?’

Wearily, he dropped to the foor, and padded once again to the old thick-planked door. His brothers voice was plaintive, and Butterfingers was sufuced with burning shame. Once more he pawed the handle futilely, once more it dripped with dairy essence. He slammed the chode of his bonce against the door, and would have keened, but couldn’t. That voice again, so supple…

’Choody, I’ve a fierce yearn to love you. Choody!’

The tromp of legs stalking away. He took his chair again. Alone.


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