by Jo Rippon
The smell of the sun sits tucked in your hair. It is mixed with specks of dirt, as if someone has ground a pepper mill over your head. I touch the scrape by your eye. It lies skew, slightly indented, lined with red. You cried when it happened, but now you have forgotten. It will take a few days to heal, but tomorrow you will be riding your bike again, past the spot where you fell.
Jo Rippon is new to this.