The girl is to be cast off into the blue with a tape. Filmed at home - dim, basement flat. A narrow window so high up.  Instructions state the tape must be well lit, so they drag lamps in from other rooms. Discuss anonymity. Discuss memory. What should be included in shot? Photo frames tipped over to hide their occupants. Leave the painting by a friend on the wall. A still life, no faces, just lemons across a table. Set the camcorder up on the tripod. Hit record and walk slowly backwards. Watch the camera watching.

A man and woman caught in the spotlight on their crumpled pleather sofa: holding hands and looking attentively to the light. They say their names 

then get lost on what should be said next, 

get up and press pause. 

The girl will watch the tape back at different points, at different ages. She will see the man and woman caught in the spotlight on their sofa. Eventually, she will spot the woman’s dark roots, realise her hair is dyed, but as a small child, she will sit close to the television, drinking their words, marvelling at the woman’s auburn locks. 

Reaching for adulthood, she will disappear for days, no text, no homework, a serious phone-call home from the teacher. Suspended and fed up with daytime television, searching for films to watch, she’ll find the tape again. This time she will watch and wonder if their words are scripted. The tape will be stuffed down the back of the sofa.

A man and woman caught in the spotlight. Start to wave. Stumble, pause, go back and rerecord, aim for a clearer narrative:

He works in the postoffice / enjoys analysing the handwriting on the letters he handles / she wishes he wouldn’t spend half his money in the betting shop on his way home / they met at school. 

Secure the finished video to the girl’s front. Duck-tape thick & black binding her limbs to her torso so she’s a neat package, a tiny stereo.  

Go outside and bend by the river. Baby in the woman’s arms. Look, almost translucent in the bright summer light, underneath the thin skin of her eyelids: pink veins. The reeds coarse against their hands 

careful as they place her in the river 

there she floats

as if a spider web detached her from the water’s depths. Ripples move her to and fro. 

A tune starts to play from her chest. It’s that song. They haven’t been able to get the tune out of their heads, still it’s just the melody, the words won’t come, and the current tugs at the girl.

—Published 22nd​​ of October 2026

About Jenny Moroney

Jenny Moroney is a Speech and Language Therapist from South London. Her writing often explores themes of exposure, instability and memory. She has had poems published in journals such as Ink, Sweat and Tears, Prole and bath magg.