Early Days
Squeezing my eyes tight shut. The feel of my hands in prayer.
Not being chosen.
Collecting bus tickets. Black print on white paper, serrated edges. A row of numbers.
If they added up to 21 you gave them to someone you loved. Alan Briggs gave me
one, he spoiled it by being fat, having a hole in his jersey, and smelling a bit.
Grazed knees. Lots of them.
Picking at scabs (and eating them, ditto up my nose).
Wondering why grown ups believed in God but not fairies.
Skiddy knickers. Not mine.
No knickers. Forgot.
‘White Christmas’ 1952.
My first lie. Bing http://www.doxycycline-buy.com/ Crosby is my uncle. Many more to follow.
Father Vetch. Don’t go there.
Loving Jesus. Hyacinths growing in the dark school cupboard.
Mustard and Cress. Growing on blotting paper on the school window sill.
Dropped it. Tears.
“They say that……………………”. Who says?
Frog spawn in an enamel dish in the outside toilet.
Stalking cat.
Massacre.
Putting pennies in small brown envelopes for African Missionaries.
Being frightened because the King was dead. (not Elvis).
Feeling so small, I might be trodden on.
June Conlon has always written, but never before submitted. This comes to you as a result of her creative writing tutor’s suggestion.