All posts filed under: prose

Eight Day Old Hex Sign

[This is something that I quickly wrote thanks to a writing exercise from Gail Carson Levine.] The first time I saw Stephen, he painted a hex sign on my right arm, and I couldn’t move my fingers for three hours. That probably sounds like he injected me with something to cause temporary paralysis, but what I mean is that I had to stay still so that the art came out exactly how he wanted it to. He used black, yellow, red, white and a hint of blue which reminded me of tear drops. I didn’t know what a hex sign was before I met Stephen. It was far from symmetrical but I thought it was striking nevertheless. Apparently he liked to paint them on everyone he felt a connection with. At first I thought that was kind of creepy, but now I like that about him. I have often wondered about how many he has painted, and how long people have left it on for. I left mine on for around eight days. The paint …

Garden Floaties

I ate my cheese and tomato toastie in the middle of my backyard with the sun on my back. I watched as a couple of butterflies fluttered over the garden shed, and a crow flew over my head. The wind moved my son’s school clothes ever so slightly on the line. A pigeon kept on cooing. Not so far away, ants fraternised madly with a twig, as though it may come to life; its sun-dried leaves remained flat against the pavement. My body still felt heavy from a harsh run with Winter colds, but everything around me was soothing and ready to float. I looked up at our gum tree, holding my arm up to shield from rays, and the tree seemed to acknowledge me. “Don’t worry,” it said. “I will take care of you.”