Lore
By S Graham
Featured Art by Beth Klaus
Every night I tag a surface with the word LORE.
Last night: the wall of a mansion abandoned mid-construction.
The night before: the back garage of a boarded-up health spa.
Tonight: a section of the fence that marks the end of our skinny seaside town.
No one really comes down to this fence, no one except for surfers on their way to the beach and cyclists heading south. Beyond the fence are kilometers of forest before the next town. In front of it is where Lauren’s body washed up on the sand.
The fence was her training ground. Her minimalist tags run along it, as well as our father’s nickname for her in other styles: bubble throw ups, pichação pieces, the occasional wildstyle.
After adding my mimicry to the painted patchwork, I look at the precision of her lines and the sloppiness of mine. The contrast makes me petulant in the way I often was when we were kids and she was better at something, better at everything. But then my heart swells with pride and I have to get away from her symbols and signs.
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