"Skinnymalink Melodeonlegs Big Banana Feet" by Sophie Thompson

I’ll never forget his face, wide open to the harsh light of the screen, drinkin’ it all in. At’s why it happened, Da said. He was all full up of film and his body couldn’t take no more. Stopped watchin’ the telly for a month so I did, in case at’s what happened when ye went square-eyed. 

His eyes and mouth yawned like they were takin’ in some miraculous stunt. At’s how I knew there was somethin’ wrong, because it was a musical and there’s no explosions in them’uns. There’s not much difference between the last gasp and all the others. His hands were crossed on his lap, charcoal anorak zipped right up because everyone gets foundered in the pictures, so they do. He’d near finished his carton of milkman’s orange, stripped all his Werther’s in advance n’all. 

Went to the pictures and couldn’t get a seat

Used to see him takin’ his wee scruff over the park, so I did. The bitsa would scamper ahead while he sloped behind, all arms and legs glidin’ over The Grove, a dirty big black drip against a screen of grubby clouds. Auld Skinnymalink, the other kids called him. They’d sing it as he’d pass, actin’ the big man then gettin’ all afeared when he’d turn and glare. We’d chuck stones sometimes, too. One hit the wee dog once. It yelped and was away like two men and a wee lad and when he turned – at look would cut ye to the quick. Scundered, so I was. 

When he got a seat, he fell fast asleep

For weeks after, I’d dream I was standin’ over him, peerin’ at the tongue squattin’ in his gapin’ gob. I’d pinch it between my finger and thumb, see it wasn’t grey and greasy like at the pictures and pull and pull and amber reel after amber reel would tick out from behind them aged Formica teeth and I’d keep on pullin’ and I’d hold the stills up to the dead stare of the screen and see shot after shot of him and his scruff over The Grove. And then he’d grab my wrist and gurn at me. 

Skinnymalink Melodeonlegs Big Banana Feet.

His wee dog was still tied up out the front when they wheeled him out, so it was. Da said we could bring it home with us. Used to take it a dander over The Grove every day, so I did. Didn’t throw stones with them kids no more. 

Sophie (she/her) is an emerging writer and social researcher, originally hailing from Ireland. She currently lives in Essex, United Kingdom with her partner, young son and three chickens. She was a finalist in the WOW! Women on Writing Fall Flash Fiction Competition 2023 and has been longlisted in the Farnham Flash Fiction Competition February 2024.