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Charon's Streamer
“How have you come, by wind or train?” I
asked the young rover, and yet he had no answer to give me.I stared long and hard at the faded maroon
suitcase, the sandpapered luggage.The
final item to take notice of was the ticket.The boy held it up like a blazing torch, a trophy, a signal to start.
“It
says, To Shadowdale.Do you know what
that is, boy?” I inquired.
He
nodded as if his ears were weighed down by water, leaking from his blue-green
eyes, eyes that stared something fierce, and I could not keep up that gaze for
the death of me.I accepted the ticket
finally, reluctantly.It was damp from
the perspiration of his hands, and warped by the strength of his grip.
“A
lone ticket,” I claimed, detaching a third and handing him the stub.The young rover shoved the paper in his
trouser pocket and reached for his belongings.In that gesture alone I understood the boy’s fiery independence like
nothing else.Baby alligators carry
themselves with likewise worldliness.Still, how much did the boy know?He was scarcely nine seasons aged.
I
held him with my tone, gruff and tobacco-ridden as it may be.“You know what you’re getting yourself
into?I suppose you don’t.Shadowdale is not a tourist-friendly
place.You’re leaving so much more
behind.Easy roads, safe travels, warm
company—for the most part.A full
belly.None of that’s guaranteed in
Shadowdale.”
“I’m
going for good,” he replied, sternly but quietly.Like a dandelion defying the gale.And here’s me, spewing rhetoric.So much wind; nothingness.The
young rover boarded and I tipped my hat to him.“All the best,” I wished him, thinking nothing better to say,
feeling inane saying it.
The
great steamers prepared to sail across the river of woe and fire.The passengers twittered, birds of
multitudinous plumage, some frightened, some happy, others sad but mostly
excited.I sealed the gates as the last
whistle blew, thinking only of the young rover and his prodigious will and
determination.I lit a fag and tossed
the blackened match over the rails.The
waters glimmered like beads of glass.
By
dirt, I hazarded then.The boy had come
by dirt, the dead fronds of the land, to this sea of glass.
Shervin Kiani is a writer currently living in Toronto.
His publishing credits include Black Petals Magazine and Dream Fantasy International.
Email: Shervin Kiani
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