Cure-All, microfiction by Elizabeth Nettleton at
Anjo Antony



written by: Elizabeth Nettleton



I tiptoe into Papa’s room, the tub of ointment in my sleeve. I can’t read its label, but Mama says it’s a cure-all, and that’s exactly what I need. Papa tosses under a blanket of stale air, his favorite nightshirt torn and yellow. A southern bullet claimed his arm in Virginia, so I dab some ointment on his shoulder first. His eyes dart beneath his eyelids as I apply the rest to his sweat-drenched brow, filling the trenches war left across his face. “Cure it all: his nightmares, his temper, his pain,” I pray until the candle flickers and dies.

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