The Wax Conspiracy

On the ground she comes back down

Leaving intentions behind, she grasps at the short straws. Fist full of grass and hers is handed right back. Never mind there being no long straws.

A twist of lemon sprinkles along the salty edge. Lines cut sweet tension in the hairline slits that appear open on the cracking corners of mouths and upper arms.

Another rough night; another day in the life.

Taking one strand of chance is a choice of the blind. Flying down south for the winter she picks up a towel to wrap around her left leg. Falls better that way. Easier to tumble into the roll. The crush of muscle softened by the terry towelling.

Travel insurance doesn't exist here. And towels are what remain from the pelt of others in the camp.

She's all alone. Alone in a world that leaves plenty behind, foreign, new, old and the familiar. With a road paved in fingernails and toe hairs, it's all for the scabies to crawl and burrow under the skin. Can't beat the preparation work under way, not when the tasty upside gets between the teeth and floss like the nanites might.

One step closer to the hedge and that's what it takes. Between the leaves and branches, from where no straw originates, scant scent of the mirrored way. Making way for flight, leaning back and ready to run.

To escape. To break free. To be beyond here despite the call to stay.

To float on and away.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 12 December 2007

The Wax Conspiracy


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