A Stroll - Pall MallA Story by ColdSpiralA snapshot of the Bendigo that exists in my head.The body flops onto the road and rolls like a rag doll to the gutter. The minivan that dropped it there has slammed its door and trundled away as only minivans can. Some louts crowd out of McCafe - boguns with their frappacinos - muttering, nonplussed about being kicked out of the playground; one of them declares her ability to "murder a burrito". They step over the corpse and slouch across the road in search of Mexican fare.
It's 2am, Wednesday, and Pall Mall is predictably crowded. I look down the street toward the park and see a bloom of red among fluffly clouds of blue-white hair - the local senior knitting societies are lobbing flares across the road at each other again. Opening the sewing store 24hrs was a bad move from the start - you can't get the dears off the street anymore, though if they closed their doors all hell would break loose. I pass the ringleader as she is handed the burning flare, and I can smell the haze of sherry that engulfs her posse. 'Your mother's great-aunt was illegitimate!' she screams, and the flare arcs back over the road. The ringleader - eighty, at least - jumps on her pimped-out shopmaster; over the roar of its lawnmower engine I can hear the crackly wireless strapped to the back as it warbles into life - "We-ell me-et agai-n..." - bloody hell, it's Vera Lynn. I grit my teeth and try to make better time to the corner.
There's another red glow past the fountain, hanging over Rosalind Park - flames, burning with a tinge of green. They've caught another of the metal folk and are trying to smelt it at the stake. It was werewolves, last week.
© 2008 ColdSpiralReviews
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4 Reviews Added on February 5, 2008 AuthorColdSpiralBendigo, AustraliaAboutI write... sometimes. Occasionally, I'll finish something. You may even get to read it. That's about all I need to say, so... more..Writing
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