Iona Winter

We met at the pub.

Next morning, he suggested breakfast, ‘Eggs?’

I cooked, we ate and he disappeared.

 

But he’d marked my neck with a crown-shaped bruise.

Then I couldn’t sleep much.

 

So I visited Granny, and her lush herb garden.

Granny says in a past life she was burnt at the stake.

 

‘Go and get your feet in the soil Lucy,’ she said.

‘Okay.’

 

It wasn’t an unusual request. I wandered outside.

Granny followed. She held my hand, and my vision clouded.

 

‘Lucy?’ she said.

‘Mmm?’

‘Who was it that bit you?

 

I followed her finger—and the bruise pulsed.

 

Author Note: ‘Marks’ was published by 101 words in February 2016