Watercolours Read Online Free
that. Itâs better when sheâs going full throttle and I know what Iâm up against.
Dad had a totally different reaction. He went to the library to check out my story and then got sidetracked by a book he found on Edmund Torft, who the portâs named after. Now heâs obsessed with reading stories about Edmund Torft and has forgotten my timeline altogether.
I pretended it didnât matter that my project was taken down. I just wanted the whole thing to be forgotten so I could try to get back to being inconspicuous.
From now on I have to be careful about what I draw. And if I canât help what I draw, then I have to be careful who I show my drawings to.
Not everyone wants to see the truth.
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The only thing Mira Lepido hated more than ticks was birdshit. Birdshit on her washing. It sent her into a fury.
Ticks, at least, were extractable. After years of practice she could remove them deftly from Noviâs head, from Varmint the catâs thick fur, from the hairy crater of Georgeâs bellybutton after an afternoon with the whipper-snipper. But mulberry stains were a different story. Once mulberry birdshit found its way onto a nice white sheet or towel or cotton shirt, then that was it. Grey and ghostly and fixed forever.
It was early Tuesday morning at the clothesline. She could smell smoke in the air; they must be burning off somewhere. It was another cloudless day and already the sun was fierce, biting the back of her neck as she pegged out a load of whites before work. She took pleasure in the heat, knowing that by theafternoon the sheets would be crisp and infused with the scent of the garden. She would put them on the beds and they would have delicious dreams all week.
Her glistening dark hair grew hot and her scalp was burning at the part but she endured the discomfort as she searched the branches of the nearby pepper tree. Most of the mulberry varieties had finished fruiting but some in the shaded gullies were late producers and she didnât trust the birds. After a few moments she nodded with satisfaction at the empty tree and reached for the peg basket, free to contemplate the subject of ticks without distraction.
Rummaging through pieces of bleached plastic she tried to pinpoint exactly what it was that made ticks so detestable. It wasnât so much their stubby bodies or their miniature scratching legs or even their hideously disproportionate heads, although all of those features gave her the shivers. It was the burrowing that repulsed her, their determination to penetrate their host. Eyes narrowed, she peered into the grass at the foot of the Hills hoist, certain sheâd uncover one in its hiding place. But there was only Varmint, chewing on a green blade. She slapped at a strand of hair tickling her neck. In the hot morning sun her skin prickled as if traversed by tiny creeping legs.
It was all that burrowing that made the little devils so hard to remove. No matter how carefully she plied her tweezers and olive oil, their faceless little heads could still break off and continue without their bodies. A headless body, digging into flesh: disgusting! She shuddered in the heat, an oddly pleasant sensation. Reaching for a pair of socks, she watched the hairs on her forearms quiver.
All around her the garden was silent. There were no birds tobe heard at all. Mira assumed they must have got their squawking out of the way at dawn and were now sheltering from the heat somewhere, cursing their feathers. She listened for a muffled chirp or coo, but detected only prickly, insect noises. Perhaps a storm was coming?
Eyes closed she inhaled deeply, hoping for a hint of autumn. She swallowed and tried to divine a change in the air: a cool current, a blast from the Tasman, a fresh breeze from the mountains. Only wood smoke and melaleuca, sour river and lilies.
The lilies were everywhere, growing like weeds throughout the garden, their shaggy necks straining with their heavy load
Dad had a totally different reaction. He went to the library to check out my story and then got sidetracked by a book he found on Edmund Torft, who the portâs named after. Now heâs obsessed with reading stories about Edmund Torft and has forgotten my timeline altogether.
I pretended it didnât matter that my project was taken down. I just wanted the whole thing to be forgotten so I could try to get back to being inconspicuous.
From now on I have to be careful about what I draw. And if I canât help what I draw, then I have to be careful who I show my drawings to.
Not everyone wants to see the truth.
Â
The only thing Mira Lepido hated more than ticks was birdshit. Birdshit on her washing. It sent her into a fury.
Ticks, at least, were extractable. After years of practice she could remove them deftly from Noviâs head, from Varmint the catâs thick fur, from the hairy crater of Georgeâs bellybutton after an afternoon with the whipper-snipper. But mulberry stains were a different story. Once mulberry birdshit found its way onto a nice white sheet or towel or cotton shirt, then that was it. Grey and ghostly and fixed forever.
It was early Tuesday morning at the clothesline. She could smell smoke in the air; they must be burning off somewhere. It was another cloudless day and already the sun was fierce, biting the back of her neck as she pegged out a load of whites before work. She took pleasure in the heat, knowing that by theafternoon the sheets would be crisp and infused with the scent of the garden. She would put them on the beds and they would have delicious dreams all week.
Her glistening dark hair grew hot and her scalp was burning at the part but she endured the discomfort as she searched the branches of the nearby pepper tree. Most of the mulberry varieties had finished fruiting but some in the shaded gullies were late producers and she didnât trust the birds. After a few moments she nodded with satisfaction at the empty tree and reached for the peg basket, free to contemplate the subject of ticks without distraction.
Rummaging through pieces of bleached plastic she tried to pinpoint exactly what it was that made ticks so detestable. It wasnât so much their stubby bodies or their miniature scratching legs or even their hideously disproportionate heads, although all of those features gave her the shivers. It was the burrowing that repulsed her, their determination to penetrate their host. Eyes narrowed, she peered into the grass at the foot of the Hills hoist, certain sheâd uncover one in its hiding place. But there was only Varmint, chewing on a green blade. She slapped at a strand of hair tickling her neck. In the hot morning sun her skin prickled as if traversed by tiny creeping legs.
It was all that burrowing that made the little devils so hard to remove. No matter how carefully she plied her tweezers and olive oil, their faceless little heads could still break off and continue without their bodies. A headless body, digging into flesh: disgusting! She shuddered in the heat, an oddly pleasant sensation. Reaching for a pair of socks, she watched the hairs on her forearms quiver.
All around her the garden was silent. There were no birds tobe heard at all. Mira assumed they must have got their squawking out of the way at dawn and were now sheltering from the heat somewhere, cursing their feathers. She listened for a muffled chirp or coo, but detected only prickly, insect noises. Perhaps a storm was coming?
Eyes closed she inhaled deeply, hoping for a hint of autumn. She swallowed and tried to divine a change in the air: a cool current, a blast from the Tasman, a fresh breeze from the mountains. Only wood smoke and melaleuca, sour river and lilies.
The lilies were everywhere, growing like weeds throughout the garden, their shaggy necks straining with their heavy load
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