The Sea-Wave Read Free

seemed to come . . . from above. As a letter. Warm, and feeling. From one beyond the prison. It could not have come from within.
    I breathed in. I had not breathed so deeply for so long. The other man breathed. I could hear him, even, with my own eyes closed, breathing in. Listening. To the wind. And the pages, in the wind. Turning and turning.
    We groaned, both, in sadness. As it passed away.

Tan

    I ’m getting a really good tan.

Writer

    I ’m sad about my future, I worry about it. But a writer is something I could be. It would be a job but also a way of communicating, feeling emotion, being more like people. I don’t mean being like them . . . I just mean feeling real.
    My fear is that, as a writer who’s also a wheeler, a wheelchair person, people would just pat me on my hair and say I was beautiful and way to go. I’d be that heartbreaking kid in the framed article in the Sunday Sun . People wouldn’t judge me or ignore me or laugh, which my cousin says happens constantly and only makes you a better writer.
    The last thing I’d want to be is a mediocre writer.
    There’s already a million of those.

Autobio

    I t’s tough, writing about yourself. Your veins are barbed wire and you’re pulling them out. Or you’re playing a guitar but then thorns grow on the strings and you have to keep playing because everyone’s watching.
    I’m not remembering nice things, I haven’t had a nice life. I’m picking onions out of my salad and just staring at a plate full of onions. I write a bit, then I feel like crying.
    Before I started writing, though . . .
    I don’t ever want to remember what that feels like.

Disneyland

    I went to Hell but it was Disneyland.
    At a school assembly, the principal called me forward. Someone pushed me forward. Someone in a Mickey Mouse suit came out of the bathroom. As he put his arms around me — I am terrified of mascots, the principal said I’d love it at Disneyland. Then he hugged me, too.
    My parents appeared. They put their arms on the pile. They looked so happy. When a sick kid wins a prize . . . I wondered if I was dying.
    When we finally got to Disneyland, my parents fought the whole way, I couldn’t go on most of the rides because they weren’t “equipped for my needs.”
    We ate corn dogs and took pictures.
    Before I could stop him, Donald Duck squeezed me and as I screamed inside, Dad snapped a photo. It hung on the living room wall for years until I knocked it down with a broom and pushed it deep in the trash. There’s still a blank space on the wall. No one’s said anything.
    We haven’t been on vacation since.

François’ Cathedral

    W e were in a dried up pasture. My legs were getting scratched up pretty bad by cactuses. I saw a brick building in the distance. The old man must’ve noticed it too because he turned me towards it and pushed me as fast as he could.
    It was a house — once. It had three walls and no roof, like a diorama. Teenagers had partied in it. “ François’ Cathedral” was spray-painted on the one wall. “Becky is a whore” was spray-painted on the other.
    The old man walked through the door hole, there was no door, and around the house.
    The floor was rotten in places. I was afraid — I thought he might fall through the floor. But instead, he went batshit.
    He picked up a part of a bedframe and hit the walls with it. He kicked them. Whatever he could get his hands on, he threw it. He threw bricks. He threw himself . He knocked down the one wall just by ramming into it.
    The old man didn’t calm down until the last wall had fallen. Then he sat in a rotten armchair with his head in his hands, panting.
    I remember thinking: What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

Coral

    M y fat aunt Coral is a riot and a lousy person. She is just so pink and fat. She laughs too much, and wears too much enormous jewellery. She’s like a pig on