The Gyre
‘Flotsam and jetsam from distant lands,
swirling and whirling in the Sassafras Sea.
Harmonious Squeezybox stitched it all together,
he named it The Gyre, Isle of Debris.’ RJP
Purple Cake
Flash Fiction - Present . Past . Present
Horns honk as she clambers out of the car, awkwardly grasping the sticky melt of purple-iced cake. She squints at the path disappearing between silhouetted Morton Bay Figs.
.
She used to count the scars etched into her skin and mind, each a story of obstacles, of steps unseen as she launched herself into life as babies and small children do, ignoring the ‘you can’t do that becauses.’ Each fall a memory tucked away with another set of broken coke bottle glasses in her secret shoebox. At night, she nursed her hurts in bed, finally soothed to sleep as her heart thrummed determinedly, ‘I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.’
.
Now she is older and understands that only she knows what it's like to live in her skin. She feels for the path with icing dripped joggers and, ignoring the tooting cars still blocked by her ride, lights the candles and walks steadily into the trees.
- RJP
The Fishyflok Festival
The Girl from Who Knows Where
Bike Ride in Kalgoorlie