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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v214) (the November 2010 Issue) |
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Order this issue from our printer as an ISSN# paperback book:  or as the ISBN# book “Don‘t Tread on Me ”:  |
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Guylian’s Magic
Natascha Tallowin
He watches out of the bus window, narrow eyes contact lens green with artificial envy, auburn hair caught up in a loose pony tail that curls and pokes through the holes in the collar of his old white T-shirt.
A small girl slouches next to him, she must be about six. She sits with her knees up, her bare brown feet press against the seat in front, small toes fidgeting and flexing against the rough material. She’s busy patiently threading blue beads onto a piece of tan leather one by one, scooping them from her lap where they lay, sparkling and rolling in the bowl of her skirt.
At one point the little girl tugs on the man’s sleeve and whispers something to him. He responds by kissing her quickly on the forehead and rubbing her dark hair so that it falls into her eyes and she giggles.
I assume them to be gypsies, travelling from place to place in romantic painted wagons, pulled by dappled grey horses with fluttering white manes and bright black hooves with soft grey feathers.
Or circus folk in a Blyton fantasy, laughing in the big top after the show, the half moon rolling behind clouds above, the hoarse laughter of drunkards and the shriek of rage from the gambler. The air would smell like sweet popcorn, candy floss and hot dogs, children would race each other in the dust, long hair whipping in the breeze, faces hot and pink from excitement.
Or maybe they are foreign, from some far off land, on the run from someone or something, forced to change their names, and identities and living a different life in a new country, seeing our roads and lanes as strange and exciting.
Whatever they may be, they alight at the next stop, balancing with trapeze precision as the bus jolts and wobbles to a standstill, feet sounding dry against the floor of the bus.
I watch them as we pull away again. Hands linked, the little girl skipping, the man flicking repeatedly at the end of a lighter, holding it to the end of a cigarette that dropped from his lips. They made their way along the edge of a field, and finally out of sight, leaving only the ripple of long grass and a long streamer of pale white smoke behind them.
