by Helen Gwyn Jones
No Soft Soap
There is an Instagram account that has videos of hands cutting soap. In one—fingers with blue nail polish—whittle a rainbow bar until the colors have tumbled and all that’s left is a muddy heap of grated cheese. In another hands cut stripes off a bar that starts as a glittery fuchsia fuckery found only in the sink of online filters and pare it down until it’s an amber nub and the only soundtrack is the long layers falling like someone shedding their skin.
And although I think it’s ridiculous I cannot peel my eyes away as you pack your bags and leave. After I try to eat the lavender soap I bought at the farmer’s market—the one you said was a waste of money—wanting my tears to mean more—for them to foam up—like sorrow on the waves. Of course I only managed one bite and then I puked all night.
At the edge of light I pick up a paring knife and head out. I walk beneath a bridge where a man is playing opera in his car with the windows open, the music swirling up—and bird droppings land on my head. The man shouts—that’s so lucky and offers me an apple.
We were always a soap opera—melodrama—interspersed with bathos—and every night the possibility of a cliffhanger. So I pick up the knife and slowly sculpt you from a bar of soap I have bought especially for the task. In the bath I use it to wash the bird shit away and then I leave it to dissolve in my dirty water. And just like that you’re gone.
Adele Evershed was born in Wales and has lived in Hong Kong and Singapore before settling in Connecticut. Her prose and poetry have been published in over a hundred online journals and print anthologies such as Every Day Fiction, Free Flash Fiction, Ab Terra Flash Fiction, Grey Sparrow Journal, High Shelf, Tofu Ink Arts Press, The Fib Review, and others. Adele has recently been shortlisted for the Pushcart Prize for poetry, the Staunch Prize for flash fiction, and her first poetry chapbook, Turbulence in Small Places, will be published next year by Finishing Line Press. Read her work at thelithag.com.
Helen Gwyn Jones (she/her) started recording her world at the age of 8 when she bought a Brownie camera from her sister, something which has become a lifelong passion. A collector of the past, she likes nothing better than muted images of imperfection. May be found poring over Welsh grammar books when not photographing drains or going into raptures over rust. Originally from Wales, now living in Spain. Recent publications include Hungry Ghost Project, Free Flash Fiction, Acropolis Journal, Paddler Press, Blink-Ink, Hecate, Pareidolia, Moss Puppy, The Levatio, Camas, Subliminal, Terse. Instagram and Twitter: @helengwynjones Facebook: Helen Gwyn Jones Photographic Artist