Friday Fictioneers, Uncategorized


I’m thin-skinned, like my mother. Understand though: I do not mean this in a metaphorical sense. My metaphorical skin, if you could see it (and I am glad you cannot), would be as leathery as a turtle’s neck, chainlinked over the years to deflect the slashes of misfortune from whichever direction they might fall, and surpassed only in resilience by the carapace wrapped tightly around my heart. No, let me be clear: I am referring to an inherited predisposition towards an epidermis so improbably rarified, that the tracery of my veins mimics the experimental underbelly of an exotically mutated beast.


Friday Fictioneers


7 thoughts on “Epidermal

  1. Pingback: Herbert the Sock Monkey – The Blair Witch Edition (Friday Fictioneers) | Being the Memoirs of Helena Hann-Basquiat, Dilettante.

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