anya

My fear is not of the beast.

I dream of stories that involve short, squat women

They told her it was going to be easy. ‘Simple, ‘they said, ‘like riding a bike.’

I’ve learnt that the best way to cut the strings is quickly and with a Stanley knife.

Two and a half hours of listening to the pathetic drone of a self-made man who sought to give me enlightenment. One who proudly claimed his heritage in the real estate industry.

I saw her neck first. It grabbed my attention.

Cat was biting her nails. She knew it made them look awful, but she just didn’t know how to stop.

Charlotte was standing at the route 453 bus shelter, keeping herself out of the damp by holding her shoulders up high and considering her appointment.

I know I need to say these things. I can see your face waiting for the words to be said. My mouth is full of chalk.

I was thinking of you today when I was staring out of the car window.

I should know better. But I don’t.

She bit the inside of her mouth hard. She tasted rust.

‘James, come fly me…’

There was a shoulder shudder and a hiccup.

Beautiful terrible. It’s always beautiful, and terrible.

My daughter muttered quietly under her breath “chook, chook, chook,” a soft keening sound of support. A whispered encouragement.

“Yes, I know all of that,” said the woman’s sharp voice in English from the kitchen where the happy plant sat on the window sill. “But is he a doctor?”

She knew it the minute she tasted it. It was the wish and the want to die.

Clack-clack, sway. Clack-clack, sway.

In truth I prefer the shoes.