Georgina Wilding final draft

22 Feb

SST8 Prose

In the midst of new beginnings

One night, I see my right hand with a nail file. Not held delicate; no pinky out, but clasped, grasped in a fist. My left hand’s bent bone fingers find furry ginger chest, twirl short ringlets in between index and thumb, and tug at rouge knotweeds. With pristine file point, I pierce down into fleshy-soil through mossy-hair, calve a ‘Y’ into his chest and fold back the flaps of sodden skin. To the left of the scape of his torso, bobbing, beating in gravy and mint sauce…
a potato.
I plunge in a hand and rip it towards me, rooty veins twang-snap, and with the file side on, I peel. Peel off the mouldy crater on the right side of the beige skin, calve out the brown sprout, shave off each scratch and scuff, as it beats, still in my hands. Finally a new potato. Baby. I stuff it back into his chest, root-veins lapping at the new porous skin, and cross stitch him back together, x, x x. Realizing that I am in the midst of a new beginning, I watch, as he leaves through the window and takes the hand of the new girl waiting for the fresh starch. And as they shrink into the grey estate, crisp packet confetti, my blinking eyes spot a glint of moonlight, as behind her back, she swings,
a masher.


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