Propagate by Ch’aska Cuba de Reed This work was originally published in Babyteeth Arts Journal, reproduced here with permission.
I brush my hair one hundred times each morning, counting through each stroke on either side. One morning, when the right-hand side of my kitchen was being used to dry excess dishes, I realised that I could shorten my tea routine if I always plugged the kettle in to the left of the sink. I was nearer the fridge this way, and if I moved my tea bags to that side of the counter, I could finish making a cup of English Breakfast without doing more than two triangles worth of steps.
FICTION
I boil my eggs with an egg timer, one that changes from light to dark as the eggs change from soft to hard. In the early afternoon, I sit outside to answer emails and complete university assignments. I sit in the middle of the wooden table, my notebooks and textbooks stacked to one side, whatever I am reading at the moment on the other. While I am studying, I look towards the corner of the courtyard, where the roof meets the wall that separates me from my neighbours. A long vine has grown, curling itself into a twisted, uncomfortable shape in its mission for light. I stand and get the scissors from the second drawer in the kitchen before snipping the vine off at the base. I cut it into pieces in the kitchen, each snip purposeful, and tip the remains into the bin under the sink. Plants can propagate if the cutting is strong enough, and I’m afraid it may grow out of something rotting in there. I type my notes into a blinking blank page first, and then handwrite summaries of my summaries after.
Illustrations by Jess Teasdale
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