THE GIRL WAS born to snow. Her mother, hot with the pain of a sideways birth, stumbled into the virgin drift and squatted, barefoot and angry as a nest of wasps. Her screams echoed off the white face of the mountains and back across nearby Trbinc Hill. When the baby ripped its way out of her body there was blood so red and thick that it looked like a horse had been eviscerated before a feast. There was vomit too, yellow as her own anger, and shit, brown as the heart of a hardwood tree.
When her mother reached down and plucked the bright red lump of flesh from the vivid mess there were patches of her bodily fluids eating colourful paths through the snow, virgin no longer. The child opened her eyes wide and her mouth wider and breathed in. In that first breath there was air, filling those tiny... Read more
To access the full text version of this article, login if you are a subscriber.
Subscribe to Griffith REVIEW or purchase the edition in our Online Store.