'Zig Zag Girl' by Sharon Telfer

Each night, his saw bites through her. He locks her in boxes, stabs her with sabres, swivels her apart.

They call her the magician’s girl, though her skin grids nowadays long after she has peeled her sticky fishnets away. She folds doves deep into pockets, beds rabbits in the hat’s blackness. Her smile fixes while he takes the applause.

His whiskeyed hand nicks her bodice. ‘Cut out the cake,’ he growls when she shows him. She takes her finest needle, mends each satin tear with an invisible stitch.

The strong man offers a broad shoulder. She dries her eyes and drops her guard. This is the secret: the crowd mark the swirling cape, the masterful voice, and never think the skill is hers. How she flexes, squeezes, concertinas as they watch him carve her up.

‘Feathers, legs, spangles. That’s all they see.’

The strong man pats her arm, leans closer. His moustache pricks her cheek. Leopard skin crushes her thigh. His meatstink breath all but overwhelms her before she wriggles free.

The miles spill out like knotted silk. Smokey compartments on panting trains. Never money for separate digs. She grips shuddering bedsteads until he’s done. Pink-eyed rabbits blink through strands of rinsed stockings. The doves coo small comforts.

Her muscles wring from the ache of it, the bending and twisting. The endless smile.

They rehearse a new trick. Her suggestion. He shuts her up. The hidden trapdoor flaps; she vanishes! Then, at his word, restored, to the wonderment of all.

The curtain rises, the limelight flares. Ta-dah! His illusion shatters, misdirected. She has gone for sure. With the cashbox.

Scattered sequins sparkle straight along the pier. Too late, he hears the steamer’s whistle blow, spies her standing tall on deck, doves streaming from her hands like a banner unfurling.
 

 

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First published in Things Left and Found by the Side of the Road, Bath Flash Fiction Award Anthology Vol 3, AdHoc Fiction, 2018.