Lizards Are the Masters of Regrowth
Afterwards you notice the lizard, its murky-colored skin, its bullet-shaped head, the right front foot raised in the way lizards sometimes do for their own mysterious reptilian reasons but at this moment resembles nothing so much as a giant Fuck You
You’ve left your favorite sandals behind, the handstitched ones with the velvety soft lining but you’re not going back
The moving van is late but you wait on the corner while rickshaws throw up dust and the afternoon sun prickles the tender nape of your neck
The boxes are heavy in your arms and your wrists ache in the joints where the cartilage rubs against the bone
You’ve left your favorite sandals behind, the handstitched ones with the velvety soft lining and daisy patterned straps but you’re not going back
Autonomy is defined as freedom to make your own decisions and when lizards realize they’re trapped and shed their tails
The boxes were heavy in your arms and your wrists ached in the way joints do when you’ve used them well
It’s a myth that chameleons change color depending on their mood; it's more about temperature and surroundings
Autonomy is defined as the freedom to make your own decisions or when lizards shed their own flesh rather than stay in a situation that will swallow them in pieces
The lizards that scuttled across the walls never blinked and never asked permission
It’s a myth that chameleons change color depending on their mood, its more about realizing they were never going to fit in anyway
Your brother loved to challenge you to staring contests and although you practiced until your eyes were bloodshot, you always lost
The lizards that scuttled across the ceilings to get out the windows never blinked, never asked permission and never looked back
The last thing you grab is the Ganesh you made in 5th standard that has lived since then in the broom closet
Your brother loved to challenge you to staring contests and many years later you realized he always sat so you were facing the sun
When you slam your bedroom door for the last time, a family photo slides to the floor, the professionally taken beautifully lit studio portrait that you’re not in
You mend Ganesh’s trunk with Blutac and keep him on the mantelpiece as a reminder that imperfect doesn’t mean irredeemable
The moving van is late but you wait on the corner while rickshaws throw up dust and nobody follows you out
Afterwards you notice the lizard, its sleek lines, it’s questioning gaze, the right front foot raised in the way lizards sometimes do but at this moment resembles nothing so much as a giant salute.
You’ve left your favorite sandals behind, the handstitched ones with the velvety soft lining but you’re not going back
The moving van is late but you wait on the corner while rickshaws throw up dust and the afternoon sun prickles the tender nape of your neck
The boxes are heavy in your arms and your wrists ache in the joints where the cartilage rubs against the bone
You’ve left your favorite sandals behind, the handstitched ones with the velvety soft lining and daisy patterned straps but you’re not going back
Autonomy is defined as freedom to make your own decisions and when lizards realize they’re trapped and shed their tails
The boxes were heavy in your arms and your wrists ached in the way joints do when you’ve used them well
It’s a myth that chameleons change color depending on their mood; it's more about temperature and surroundings
Autonomy is defined as the freedom to make your own decisions or when lizards shed their own flesh rather than stay in a situation that will swallow them in pieces
The lizards that scuttled across the walls never blinked and never asked permission
It’s a myth that chameleons change color depending on their mood, its more about realizing they were never going to fit in anyway
Your brother loved to challenge you to staring contests and although you practiced until your eyes were bloodshot, you always lost
The lizards that scuttled across the ceilings to get out the windows never blinked, never asked permission and never looked back
The last thing you grab is the Ganesh you made in 5th standard that has lived since then in the broom closet
Your brother loved to challenge you to staring contests and many years later you realized he always sat so you were facing the sun
When you slam your bedroom door for the last time, a family photo slides to the floor, the professionally taken beautifully lit studio portrait that you’re not in
You mend Ganesh’s trunk with Blutac and keep him on the mantelpiece as a reminder that imperfect doesn’t mean irredeemable
The moving van is late but you wait on the corner while rickshaws throw up dust and nobody follows you out
Afterwards you notice the lizard, its sleek lines, it’s questioning gaze, the right front foot raised in the way lizards sometimes do but at this moment resembles nothing so much as a giant salute.
Anita Goveas is British-Asian, London-based, and fueled by strong coffee and paneer jalfrezi. She was first published in the 2016 London Short Story Prize anthology, most recently by Fractured lit. She’s on the editorial team at Flashback Fiction, an editor at Mythic Picnic’s Twitter zine, and tweets erratically @coffeeandpaneer. Her debut flash collection, Families and other natural disasters, is available from Reflex Press.
Art: Two Cards, oil and acrylic on canvas, Rebecca Pyle