Ella has a tiny pet. From her dad’s Ronson cigarette lighter, a flint. Red. Blowing the bead across the floor, she takes it for a walk. Till it falls in a canyon between floorboards. He won’t give her another.
Ella’s father does not shrink to a point of control. He smokes, stares, strokes, rolls her around. She goes tiny and red to disappear in cracks.
Photo credit: Beret Olsen