Short Stories

Holding a kite, along with the other kids on our quiet suburban street, we run free. Lovers of abandoned places, we leave the familiar neighbourhood and explore the forgotten railway station. We don’t move in straight lines but jostle with the wind. With each other. With ourselves. Still, we share the sky. Weeds stand silently beside crumbling stone walls while we wrestle with tangled kite lines.  We check the wind before flying. Sometimes there is barely a breeze, and at other times there are huge gusts. Licking our index fingers, we point them upwards towards the heavens. The side of the finger cooled by the breath of the blowing wind indicates the direction we must turn our backs on. Instead of taking a run-up, we hold our kites in the air and let the wind navigate for us.  One kite starts to spin in big loops, swirling closer to the ground, it meets the dirt track. We launch kites only to have them fall at our feet. Making slight adjustments to its design, we lighten the load to in