I point my truck down Main Street, let her roll away under my feet and guide me through the town. I take a left at the lights by the hardware store and then a right in front of the water tower and not a minute later, I find myself rolling up into the parking lot. The hour isn’t too late, but it seems like it’s getting dark early again these days. There’s a cyclical nature to these things that breeds habits. Continue reading
I run my soapy hands under the cold water, watching as the bubbles swirl around the drain before disappearing from view. Once all the lavender scent has been rinsed from my palms I cup my hands, letting them fill with the icy water, and splash it on my face. The water spills onto the tiled floor and across the melamine vanity, and it soaks patches of my flannel long sleeve and white t-shirt underneath. It sends a shiver down my spine, but it feels nice after such an overwhelming day. I wipe my damp hands on my jeans and open the door of the nautical-themed bathroom. Continue reading
I take my time getting out of the truck, half-hoping that by the time I get round to Pierre’s side, he’ll have lifted his head off the dashboard and politely asked the young caribou girl to be on her way. Since he’s showing no inclination to do either of those things, I stroll around towards her. She smiles nervously at me and I nod back.
“I must say, this is an unexpected pleasure, Miss.”
She blushes, smiles at me and says nothing in that awkward way that teenagers do when they ring a doorbell and they’re faced with an unwanted conversation with a parent rather than the object of their affections. The girl looks right past me at Pierre, and her face softens as he sits upright. The freckled imprint of the dashboard remains on his face.
I stare at Ben and wait for him to say something. When he doesn’t, and instead calmly downs the last of the coffee from the paper cup, I can’t help myself from blowing up a bit.
“What the actual fuck?” I scream, scaring a few birds off their branches and into the air. “What the fuck is happening? Why are there centaurs in my backyard?”
“They’re not technically centaurs. Although I think they may have originated from—”
“I don’t care where they’re from, why are they here?” Continue reading
By the time I get to the treeline, all I can see is Pierre’s hindquarters poking out of the bushes.
“Nice morning for it,” I call.
He jumps about a foot, and his angry beetroot face looks out at me.
“Nice morning for what, exactly?”
“Whatever it is you’re doing.”
Pierre stands upright and holds out a fist in my direction. I’m surprised. For all his bluster, Pierre is too sweet a lad to go threatening anyone, let alone an old man like myself. When I look closer, I realise he’s offering me the contents of his closed hand.