Candy on the Dirt-Track - Chapter One

Someone once said a river could never be lazy because it is constantly on the move. That's what Dad told me before he went a bit daft in the head.

It was the day of the dancing corn, swinging to the ticking of time's great orchestra. I think someone was singing the blues that day, because the sleek bodies were drenched and dripping and waltzing along in their pretty summer frocks, all frills and no idea how proud mother would be if she happened to pass this way tonight. Falling. Time. Funny. I thought of those sweets - you know the ones - shiny and yellow with a great big dimple bang in the middle. I haven't had one of those in years; not since the days of the blurred photographs and the mornings that smelt of stale gas and staler sunshine.

I wanted to tell him about the purple flies that snuggled up to the roses even though the day lasted well into the night, and the way the crisp dollar bills bounded over the dirt track - cleaning up the dust so I didn't have to. I never did find out who they belonged to - the bundles of heavy money - they just materialised out of the hole where I lost the memories years ago.

As I remember, it was he who started it. I never did call him Dad - not until years later. I always used to tell him that someone who could fish the dreams from the lake in my head and make them into words was someone who was far more special than a plain old 'Dad', he was a Magick Man. Magick with a 'k', always with a 'k'; that was the way we were, and not ashamed of it, either. That was why we went back. The place had always been ours - even though we'd never walked through the seas of corn and felt the loose seeds fall down our legs and into our cotton socks, it still belonged to us. I knew the way the air would feel as it entered my lungs - all heavy and sticky, but warm and welcoming. I knew how quickly the pretty leaves would explode into a thousand shades of glorious crimson- and burgundy-red, as if it was a race, a struggle against the season to wind the clock round to summer again. I knew about something else as well; I knew about the lady who watched us from the gloom, frenziedly inhaling the dust of the night. She knew about us too, our dreams, our faith, and she wanted something in return for her kindness. I wished for the flood of colour to rip away the seams of her image, and even when it did it left a nasty scar where perfection should have been. Dad knew. My Magick Man, he knew. His wry smile said all I needed to know when I told him I was off to visit Gloria. Smiles tell stories, did you know that? Everyone knows that. The River Gloria - my restful river, where everything stays the same and nothing is allowed to be forgotten. She told me a lot of stories, too. Once I went to see her during a torrential downpour, brolly collapsing under the weight of the determined rain, so I just sat upon the polished rock, shrieking and moaning about the broken egg-timer and how it was wrong I should have to time the egg myself as it lay trembling, trustingly under the blanket of water. Perhaps I only loved it because it was mine; the river that laughed and cried and smiled as I did. The river that was lazy. The river where mum died.

Feedback sent in by Pete J Garbett 09/Dec/2001 

As well as the beautiful and lyrical prose, there is a mystical quality to this work which many an amateur critic would not fully appreciate, especially if he/she is a biological reductionist. I thought I'd let you know that I do appreciate it.