Tuesday, June 09, 2015

three minisagas

A gentle but biting wind is drifting across the sand towards the grey-timbered summer houses. Stomach tightening with anticipation, she begins to empty the rucksack. Behind her, he can just make out a picture frame, green twine, plastic sheeting and a small mirror. A black gull squawks in the shallows. 

Our inability to navigate in time is disconcerting. If a musician finds themself lost in the structure of a tune they will ask their bandmates, "where are we?", never "when are we?" But we might also answer "where is the house?" with "about half an hour away". We prefer translation.

The Citro├źn took the bend too quickly to avoid the water that lay glibly on the tarmac between the flooded fields. Hedgerow suddenly merged with spray. When it emerged it was backgrounded by the lights of a small airstrip. The driver sighed; then he growled. The substitute had already arrived.

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