09
Dec
10

freewrite 2 February 2010


Hairbrush

Fatal Illness
Opens with an ex-trapeze act.
My mother, as skilled as she once was, flicked the pepper dispenser at my face.
The fuck!” I cried.
She looked at me like an ill-trained dog.
I was foaming at the mouth, and taunting.
She coaxed: let me brush your hair.
There was no chance.  She lunged towards me but I rolled back on myself and flung her seventeen feet over my head.
“There is no cure for this shit!”  She wailed.
“Good godamned job getting pregnant then.”  I vomited.
The brush, pulling my skull towards her hand, reached a rhythm of untimed harmony.  I released all tension to her bond.  She coddled me.
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