A selkie seeks truth on Fascination Street

by Kate Garrett

I swapped my corduroy
jeans for black frocks, silver skulls. A dress
up game, my friends joined in, we danced
with streetlights on our way to Monday
night. Rain translated 
whispers between tires
and roads, granted them one chance to share
secrets. White faces shone through the gloom;
you can’t wear this stuff  in the daytime, they would
murmur, it melts right off your skin. It’s only 
for the dark,   
inside, where our heads
floated, disembodied under black lights. At
the edge of the dance floor we broke
the illusion, pale arms drifting tentacles,
hair loose coils
of midnight seaweed. Nothing
changed. Still wearing the lace and velvet, I wander
over sky-cobbled streets, stumbling through
deepest neon. They said I fit right in, when I meta man like stone he
had my coat, the colour  of sealskin,
in his hands, but gave me his instead. We’re months 
and miles away from Monday night. I miss my friends.
I miss my coat. I miss.


Kate Garrett writes poetry and flash fiction (most recently or forthcoming in The Copperfield Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Clear Poetry, Your One Phone Call). She also edits other people’s poetry and flash fiction: she founded her own webzine and small press, the folklore-fairytales-and-mythology themed Three drops from a cauldron, and as a senior editor for Pankhearst, she edits the Slim Volume themed anthologies and the Fresh blog feature for emerging poets. She lives in Sheffield, England with a folkmusicianpoet, a cat named Mimi, and three too-clever trolls who call her “mum”. Find her online at www.kategarrettwrites.co.uk.

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