Canal.
by 
choille
|
Posted: Wednesday, November 25, 2009 Word Count: 446 Summary: For The 282 Challenge. Busted the word count - sorry. Related Works: Behind Closed Doors. • |
Swans came first, followed by geese, then a straggle of ducks; a rag-tag army all slithering along the top of the frozen canal.
Someone had thrown a supermarket trolley onto the ice from the bridge. The birds slid on past it in their pursuit of running water.
I walked into the crisp undergrowth, retrieved a branch that felt leaden, as cold as steel in my gloved hand and threw it into the canal. It skimmed across the surface, caused the birds to screech and flap. The branch settled against the white encrusted reeds on the opposite bank.
I thought for a moment that I wanted to walk across the ice, step on the glassy surface and follow the scattered birds up to Cowley. A man came, with a dog on a lead, throwing sticks, but the dog could only stretch so far, had to wait until the owner had caught up to the stick they’d thrown. Then the dog bent down, retrieved the stick, dropped it at its owner’s feet, but he kept walking, ignoring the dropped stick. He’d choose another from the banking and toss that ahead. I watched them for a while until they disappeared under the bridge, out of sight.
I felt the box in my pocket, its corners sharp. My fingers encased it in my palm.
Miriam, his Mother, had shown me her wedding china: the twelve cups, saucers and tea plates, the sugar and cream, matching tea pot and trivet. It all seemed so chintz, so of another age. She’d smiled expectantly; had offered it to me, had it laid out on her dinning room table. Of course I said, ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ but she pressed on, patted my shoulder.
A jet screamed overhead scratching the blue sky with white as the branch had etched a scar across the surface of the frozen ice.
The box wouldn’t sink - if I threw it, would sit like the trolley until a thaw came, or someone retrieved it, plucked it from the top.
Nearer the factory, high up in the building, I could see men and machines through the many windows. There was noise: bustle and thrum, bangs, scream of tools: metal against metal. Flashes of white light and the arcing shower of welders working illuminated the drab brick gable.
Someone somewhere had made this ring; hunched over a bench, beaten a strip of gold into a band, soldered it, and placed a stone into it’s claws.
I saw a trickle of water near an out-pipe. Warmth was melting the ice on the other side. If I walked across I could push the box under, let it sink down into the murky slime.
Someone had thrown a supermarket trolley onto the ice from the bridge. The birds slid on past it in their pursuit of running water.
I walked into the crisp undergrowth, retrieved a branch that felt leaden, as cold as steel in my gloved hand and threw it into the canal. It skimmed across the surface, caused the birds to screech and flap. The branch settled against the white encrusted reeds on the opposite bank.
I thought for a moment that I wanted to walk across the ice, step on the glassy surface and follow the scattered birds up to Cowley. A man came, with a dog on a lead, throwing sticks, but the dog could only stretch so far, had to wait until the owner had caught up to the stick they’d thrown. Then the dog bent down, retrieved the stick, dropped it at its owner’s feet, but he kept walking, ignoring the dropped stick. He’d choose another from the banking and toss that ahead. I watched them for a while until they disappeared under the bridge, out of sight.
I felt the box in my pocket, its corners sharp. My fingers encased it in my palm.
Miriam, his Mother, had shown me her wedding china: the twelve cups, saucers and tea plates, the sugar and cream, matching tea pot and trivet. It all seemed so chintz, so of another age. She’d smiled expectantly; had offered it to me, had it laid out on her dinning room table. Of course I said, ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ but she pressed on, patted my shoulder.
A jet screamed overhead scratching the blue sky with white as the branch had etched a scar across the surface of the frozen ice.
The box wouldn’t sink - if I threw it, would sit like the trolley until a thaw came, or someone retrieved it, plucked it from the top.
Nearer the factory, high up in the building, I could see men and machines through the many windows. There was noise: bustle and thrum, bangs, scream of tools: metal against metal. Flashes of white light and the arcing shower of welders working illuminated the drab brick gable.
Someone somewhere had made this ring; hunched over a bench, beaten a strip of gold into a band, soldered it, and placed a stone into it’s claws.
I saw a trickle of water near an out-pipe. Warmth was melting the ice on the other side. If I walked across I could push the box under, let it sink down into the murky slime.