I’d just finished getting dressed that morning when I noticed glittery streaks on my towel. Glitter isn’t an unusual thing in my house; it’s the herpes of the craft world, after all. Do you remember, during covid, there was an analogy for it? Nine people are using glitter in a small room. How many of them are not covered in glitter? Well, I teach 30 tiny, sociopathic people in a classroom built for straight-backed Victorian paragons. The craft lessons are—well, I’ll leave it to your imagination.Continue reading “Gold – by Cara”
A girl stands by her parents’ car at the gates to the air base. They’re all looking for someone. The air is hot and smells of dust and pine needles. The road is lined with shops selling brass and carpets and souvenirs for the US airmen posted overseas. When this family return home, they will bring with them a carpet too big for any of the rooms in their house, a lantern and several dolls in traditional dress.
They flew into Turkey six months ago, just the girl, her sister and her mother, following her father. At first, they lived in a flat in a tower block. On each floor, the balconies were dark brown, curving out from the main tower. If you lay on the floor, there was a gap of about an inch. The girl would lie there until she felt dizzy, watching the busy traffic.
I was told that the spring equinox was the only day you could balance an egg on its end. The house didn’t feel like the appropriate place for natural magic, so I took an egg up on to the moors and found a flat stone. But when I put my hand in my bag it came out covered in shell and yolk, the white trailing behind.
I waited a year.
I went on to the moors again, this time with the egg in my hand and no bag. Just my keys in my pocket.
The egg stood upright on the rock. I left it there and in the morning it had rolled over and smashed on the floor. You’ll just have to trust me.