By Johnny White Really-Really
I sat out one evening in the dreadful old wicker chair on the veranda eating honey straight from the jar and thinking about the bird and whether I should draw a picture of him in charcoal or whether I should just stay scooping honey into my mouth like a bear would do, with little sprays of rain and the summer smell buffeting onto my face. By turns I tasted bitterness on my tongue and I looked at my hand and noticed the palm was stained with dark green streaks. A memory came to me then. A memory from earlier that day. Myself, in the kitchen, staring at the spot on the floor where I’d seen the bird, squeezing a penny so tightly inside my fist that copper is getting all over my fingers.
Riso printed at Hato Press, 2017
Published by firstname.lastname@example.org
Johnny is appearing at Edinburgh Festival Fringe