A child was dangling over the kerb, the back wheels of his push-chair holding his whole weight, too near the precipice. Water scattered from a passing lorry, sprinkling his jacket-front like glitter. The boy tried to sit up, rocking the buggy, himself within it, over the tarmac abyss. He couldn’t be more than two, Monica thought. Maybe less. The rims of the back wheels, his sole contact with terra firma, were worn; the chair that held him, thin canvas. A juggernaut rounded the corner, changing gear so the pavement groaned, expecting an avalanche. Monica watched the mother blink, draw her face back from the fumes as the words WASH ME slithered past her, close enough to touch. The boy, however, stayed put, the radiator grille as near as dammit tipping his nose, heat haze rippling his face into strips. The rabbit in his hand shook from the tremor rattling down his arms, his skinny little bones. Then the lorry, its lumbering, unimaginable tonnage, was past. Monica coughed. The exhaust at kid’s eye-level. Carbon monoxide. Jesus, she murmured. Holy Mother of God.
Razor sharp tales of the most powerful human experiences and a close examination of the everyday.
One of the short stories is available to read here: http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/reg...
A child was dangling over the kerb, the back wheels of his push-chair holding his whole weight, too near the precipice. Water scattered from a passing lorry, sprinkling his jacket-front like glitter. The boy tried to sit up, rocking the buggy, himself within it, over the tarmac abyss. He couldn’t be more than two, Monica thought. Maybe less. The rims of the back wheels, his sole contact with terra firma, were worn; the chair that held him, thin canvas. A juggernaut rounded the corner, changing gear so the pavement groaned, expecting an avalanche. Monica watched the mother blink, draw her face back from the fumes as the words WASH ME slithered past her, close enough to touch. The boy, however, stayed put, the radiator grille as near as dammit tipping his nose, heat haze rippling his face into strips. The rabbit in his hand shook from the tremor rattling down his arms, his skinny little bones. Then the lorry, its lumbering, unimaginable tonnage, was past. Monica coughed. The exhaust at kid’s eye-level. Carbon monoxide. Jesus, she murmured. Holy Mother of God.