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Zoo by Lizzy Dening
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Elephant The elephants are the first exhibit, after the gift shop. He lifts the child so she can see. Her armpits are warm as hot cross buns. The elephant with foamy lips tosses its head, exposing the whites of its unfocused eyes. ‘Is that one dancing?’ asks the child. ‘Yes,’ says her father, at the same time as her mother says, ‘No.’ The child is returned to the ground. Ahead she can see the monkey cages. Her father jingles change, tells her to get an ice cream. Her mother frowns. The child melts lolly down her fist, thinks about icebergs. Monkeys She steadies herself on the buggy, nauseous. The twins are in ape masks, their trainers flashing red as they run. Last night was her first night out since the baby. She tastes gin and coconut at the back of her throat. She had enjoyed the way the barman talked to her breasts. This morning she wanted to roll over and jab someone else into action, but the bed was large and barren. Just one lamp, one glass of water. Her tights balled by the window. She watches a couple enviously, the dad wiping his daughter’s mouth with a tissue. Peacock Its feathers are holiday blue in the drizzle. A short man throws stale popcorn for it to pick from puddles. Deft on its legs of sculpted wire. His girlfriend needs to bend to kiss him, even in flat shoes, which was at first awkward. Now she is accustomed to the tip of head, the folds of her knees. The bird, greedy, chokes. Its neck bulging. The man steps away, embarrassed as its beak gapes wide. The noise is a dry grating that makes him think of evenings in Florence, with his ex. The rasp of cicadas in the dark. Giraffe Her name badge reads ‘Nobody’. She wants to see if anyone will notice. It’s been three weeks so far, and no-one has. Customers try not to look up at her, staring instead at their fingers, children, purchases. Fussing over plastic bags. The man in green is buying a post-card of a giraffe. It has been captured bending to drink, its lip curled. The photographer has enhanced the sunlight on its hide, so it could almost be on an African Savannah, and not in Chester. She catches his eye. He has freckles, his smile is warm and wonky. “Nice nametag.” Crocodile The teacher leads her children, a tail of noise. She feels the heat of them at her back. Every now and then, she turns and tells them to ‘Shh. Watch. Listen.’ This is her mantra. In the car, letting the clutch control her, she warns herself, ‘Shh. Watch.’ In bed, with her lover, she bites her lip. Hoping to hold back, ‘Shh, Listen.’ He takes her scrunched face for repressed pleasure. Tells her to let go. He doesn’t understand what it means, to lead a crocodile of children. To always be looking for dark men, electric sockets. Black ice.
Second Place: Banquet Third Place: Little Red Wheelbarrow |
