Campfire Stories


Facing the future in style

There is a dead fly in my sink, it has been there for two days now, it’s tiny glassy wings stuck to the stainless steel, legs up, comically, like it is pretending, waiting for a friend to zzzzzzzzzzzz past so it can say boo.  My daughter is in her bedroom deciding where her tattoo is going to be placed next Friday. I am invited, periodically, to view pieces of skin with photocopies of cat’s heads in various positions and moved degree by degree.  My input is neither wanted nor needed, the cat head will settle in the perfect spot in black and white splendour, announcing to the word that its canvas is, young, firm and adventurous.   I pull the top of my yoga pants out slightly and look at my own piece of ink.  Was I ever that young, firm and free?

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