Emma Phillips
It’s all about lines, his dad says. Hold the line. Lines, the boy thinks, weren’t made for him. Lines to hold letters, lines for lunch, lines for the toilet where his team’s star striker digs his elbow in his back and whispers Dunno why you’re in. Painted lines slice rectangles through grass and stop wildflower growth. Keep them offside, his father yells, one arm raised into an exclamation mark in protest; whistle clamped between his teeth; lines of battle on his forehead; the opposing team the enemy; each fresh match a war with one option: to win.
The boy runs from the ball; he doesn’t care, he’ll ignore his teammates’ hollers. He was never one for soldiers; his feet make snail trails across the pitch. His arms soar and rise as he swoops, ducks, dives. He throws his head back to the sky, sticking out his tongue. He’d like to lick the clouds. If he runs in circles, he’s a wheel; all those lines a road. He’ll zoom on as the parents suck in their breath. Follow my speed, he thinks, watch me spin.
Emma Phillips lives by the M5 in Devon, which sometimes lures her off in search of adventure. Her words have recently appeared in Mslexia, Trash Cat Lit, Temple in a City and Raw Lit.
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Here on Trash Cat Lit – ‘Lapwing’ and ‘When Eve Realised it was all so Fucked, No one Even Cared About the Apple‘
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