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May 1, 2017 | by  | in Creative Writing |
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Small truths

It is Thursday and I am on an island just outside of the city, in a cabin my father’s flamboyant boss owns. He is clearly enamoured of Marilyn Monroe, tribal vases, and hanging cheap plastic leis over everything. The blisters on my heels burn in a prickly way and I am convinced that I’m continually being bitten by mosquitoes even though I don’t have a single visible bite. I am wearing a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt despite not being partial enough to their music to feel that wearing them on my chest is warranted, and occasionally checking my ab development in the mirror (non-existent).

My father continues to punctuate his sentences with “Fred” and “sport” even though I’ve long been over the age of eight. I let him because I’ve always been reluctant to let go of these remnants of childhood (when I realised that my parents stopped making me do a “cheesy grin” and then vigorously brushing my teeth for me every night, I had a mild panic attack).

His room smells like talcum powder and old sweat.

I read The Old Man and the Sea near an old man (my father) and the sea (a swampy inlet). He plays online poker.

We go on a tiki tour. I keep telling him to go up fun looking roads that turn into dead ends.

We are stationary at an intersection between Dead Dog Bay and Rocky Bay.

“Which way should we go?” I can tell my dad is antsy.

“’There are lots of chickens in the sports park,” I respond.

I want to go up Bella Vista Road because I think it means nice views in some European language, but he ignores my wordless request.

I want him to teach me to skim rocks at Rocky Bay but all the rocks are jagged. I notice three large boats sitting next to us on the shore and we have to turn away and leave immediately before a panic attack ensues.

I show him my impressive tyre swinging skills. He smiles absently and lights up a cigarette.

I tell him that I used to think quarries were staircases for giants. He laughs and unnecessarily repeats “quarries.”

I like staring into vineyards because each new row brings a new sliver of the world.

High tide. Overcast. Lots of strangers cycling.

Overly large front lawns fill me with a slow boiling sort of anger.

Someone drew an elephant in the sand. I draw a cat riding on top of it.

I finally remember that I can’t open the door at first because there’s no central locking and feel an inexplicable sense of pride.

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