The crowd surge forward. They all wear blue. Despite the uniformity, I pick out faces. Each expression is unique. I focus on a young man – his brown eyes are round and expectant. His childish complexion gives him a glow. I don’t want to see him dashed.
Owl eyes are the deepest. They draw you in, when you don’t want to be drawn. When you want to sit still and mind your own business, stay lost in your own thoughts. This owl was curious. I saw it in his red-rust flecks. He wasn’t about to blink. Then again, neither was I.
The road narrows and the fog hangs in, like dragon breath. We’re on a nameless diversion – no signposts, not even sun to mark the horizon. Houses float out, make themselves known against white. If people live here, it can’t be so desolate. It’s just the weather.
But the road shudders its way into the car, into our bodies, until we exclaim at its roughness. Our eyes find the dirt, not even a hint of a white line. We could not live here.
In festive tale: ‘Rewriting Christmas’, a cynical writer (Bill) battles with his publisher and self appointed publicist Teri. Teri cracks the whip from behind a polished facade of vanilla lipgloss, spicy perfume and empty air kisses.