“Find your centre,” purred the American-accented yoga instructor.
I watched my knee wobble in front of me. My arms, supposed to be stretched above my head, kept twitching as I struggled to keep my balance. My ‘warrior one’ pose definitely needed some work.
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The following pieces cannot be read in isolation, one after the other. No story is complete without another; no piece acts as a beginning or end point. Readers, like space travellers, must move forward in loops.
I woke up in the morning when my Bernese Mountain dog, Humphrey, jumped on my side of the bed. His warm weight pressed against my back and I reached a hand out sleepily to stroke his ears. Harry stirred beside me, rolling onto his back, the filtered light through the thin curtains covering our bedroom window drifting over his bare chest. He smiled as I nestled my head into his shoulder and felt his lips brush my forehead.
I dreamt once that I was Lavinia, or Philomela. I had no hands and no tongue, so really I was Lavinia, but somehow I was Philomela. The Blade had cut my tongue sheer off, close to the trembling Root. The mangled Part still quiver’d on the Ground.