Poor Charlie

by Hari Navarro

I was sixteen the first time. Never sensed anything like it. Such wonder. Worlds away from the fantastical lies that curled my toes and suppressed my exasperated sighs as the father spoke down from his pulpit.

Poor Charlie, loved since he was but a ball of foundling fur. His rot grabbed me and I sat transfixed as the faeries nipped, tugged, and gulped down the flesh from the now exposed cage of his ribs.

I called my parents—they, too, stared yet all they saw were mites and flies and maggots.

I was sixteen when I first encountered the fae.

Hari Navarro