The Isis | Treehouse | TT21

The afternoon sun over the village hall winks at me now, as if she knows about the time I stood outside the entrance, flirting with a boy I didn’t like. Unlike me, she never wanted to leave.

She peers over the roofs as though cheating on her SATs, copying my memories. Nothing I do goes unseen, my every movement taken down in someone else’s handwriting.

Now, I am the spark of an electric shock on the metal slide.

Standing among the trees, I watch the little creatures at my feet disappearing before I can work out what they are, who they are.

I stamp in the puddle myself, letting the cold water shock me into seeing this place like a postcard.