Creative practice Kay Harrison Creative practice Kay Harrison

flip the bird

It’s the night of the beach bonfire. The pile of sticks on the sand has grown steadily over the last few weeks, the sun sucking the moisture from the gas-white branches.

We’re killing time in the pop-up soft-top of the Kombi van. The air in the cabin is a combination of scrambled eggs and baked beans, stale bed sheets, the wet smell of fridge and kerosene. Ange groans. I look over the top of the book balanced on my knees at my younger sister.

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Creative practice Kay Harrison Creative practice Kay Harrison

The Thin Red Line

I can’t work the till. It’s my first day. The café is busy but he’s patient. He stands watching me. He has dark hair. A tall drink of water as my nan would say.

Two days later we’re drinking beer in a pub. He orders for me. I don’t say I don’t like it. He takes me home. We have sex. I don’t even know him. That makes me cheap.

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Creative practice Kay Harrison Creative practice Kay Harrison

The White Ambassador

The old man’s breath came in short bursts as they climbed the road’s steep grade. His legs worked like pistons against the rickshaw’s pedals. Cate stared into the carpel of scalp on the back of his head, rocked side to side by his efforts.

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