The Diver by Emily Middleton His toes curl, determined as the slugs in his mother’s vegetable patch, the boy raises his arms. The creamy sunset illuminates his muscular figure. He inhales deeply, pushing his diaphragm downwards like he’s been taught, so that the butterflies in his belly are shrunk to playful moths. He springs, agile as the spindly-legged frogs in the park opposite his gran’s. As he tumbles through the air, the familiar thrill, induced by this and rollercoasters alone, shoots up his belly and erupts in his torso. The wind defines his premature wrinkles and his skin is moulded easy as clay into a Picasso-like sculpture. The disorder reflects his state of mind: a multitude of thoughts press against his temples; he dismisses them as annoying little buggers but as each individual notion becomes obsolete, another slips in, quick as the Fido he wishes he’d had, to replace it. He sees his miscalculation before he feels it. The biting rocks soar up to meet him, snapping eagerly in anticipation. The last taste to grace his tongue is one of salty seaweed. https://www.instagram.com/p/CfmjrM7Pi8R/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
