Behind the mirror

The air is hot and heavy and the atmosphere is humid. It makes my garden feel like a desert. Stepping out onto the terrace, I attempt to cool off. The ground is dry and dusty and the concrete burns my feet. In the surrounding meadow, the crickets polish their legs against the grass, a bizarre lullaby spiralling from left to right. Above me, a seagull cries out, it’s throaty despair enveloping the landscape.

Breaking the sheen of the pool, I slide beneath the surface. The water is cool and clear and I feel at home within it. Flapping my arms – first up and down, then in and out – I devour it length and breadth. If it weren’t for the wall, that hard line that hurt my foot last summer, I could go on forever. As it is, I do my best.

Later, wet and exhausted, I fall into bed. The room hums, but even stirred, the air refuses to move. Mosquitos flock to my body and my arms lash out – swish, swish… favouring neglect to these curious ministrations which only make my skin itch. Behind the mirror, the gekkos make out. Already in their hundreds, soon their will be millions. Left unchecked, they will swallow my house.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

 
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The Torso that carried the skeleton

The cold invaded her bones, chilling her to her center, stalling and stopping all that wanted more than anything now to grow. Small shoots, only yesterday pointing upwards, carrying distant promises and cradling soon-to-be-loved dreams, curled under and back into, attempting to relocate the not-so-long-ago bid-farewell-to space from whence they had only recently emerged. Shivering, tensing up, the torso that carried the skeleton constricted, pulling backwards and against.

Reversing, she peddled the wrong way, yesterday reaching out and waving, last week extending long-nailed hands. The year just gone by stepped forward to greet her and with it the cloying grip of the past long-since departed but not yet laid to rest tugged hard.

Grey and black descended. Corners crept in, chaperoning shadows that sat down and spread out.

Sighing, averting her eyes towards instead of away, she met them all politely with a resigned smile. Tomorrow she would stand up and fight. Tomorrow she would take back and repossess. Tomorrow, with her hoe and can, she would get watering and planting. Today, however, was much too early. She was still exhausted from yesterday and the long journey of getting there.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

To keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
• Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter

The Torso that carried the skeleton

The cold invaded her bones, chilling her to her center, stalling and stopping all that wanted more than anything now to grow. Small shoots, only yesterday pointing upwards, carrying distant promises and cradling soon-to-be-loved dreams, curled under and back into, attempting to relocate the not-so-long-ago bid-farewell-to space from whence they had only recently emerged. Shivering, tensing up, the torso that carried the skeleton constricted, pulling backwards and against.

Reversing, she peddled the wrong way, yesterday reaching out and waving, last week extending long-nailed hands. The year just gone by stepped forward to greet her and with it the cloying grip of the past long-since departed but not yet laid to rest tugged hard.

Grey and black descended. Corners crept in, chaperoning shadows that sat down and spread out.

Sighing, averting her eyes towards instead of away, she met them all politely with a resigned smile. Tomorrow she would stand up and fight. Tomorrow she would take back and repossess. Tomorrow, with her hoe and can, she would get watering and planting. Today, however, was much too early. She was still exhausted from yesterday and the long journey of getting there.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

To keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter, send me your email address.

• View or buy my work at my online portfolio
• Save 30% and buy from me direct
• Learn more about my work and the inspiration that guides it
• Keep up to date with my progress and receive a copy of my newsletter