THE BOY AND HIS DOG
The boy and his dog set foot from the grim pebble-dashed bungalow and out onto the sparse grass; the boy’s leaden feet begin to tread the familiar route whilst his dog’s sombre behaviour indicates a weariness with the world that is all too similar to his. They run past the butcher’s, the pub and the newsagent’s. Empty, twisted cider cans are swept into rusty, corrugated corners. They pass a tyre yard.Thick swathes of vulcanised rubber lie worn and tired. Amongst them comes a small bitch with its hair tangled and matted. As it comes to the looming gate it whimpers and its soft, limpid eyes stare out at the dog. The dog strains on the chain, his thick neck gripped by the links; the boy snatches at the lead and they continue on the road. Tall, hearty oaks swelling with leaves sway in the soft wind. Delicate-looking doves roost in the lower canopies, their black collars swaying too.The boy and his dog pass beneath them, faster now, and are observed with curiosity. The wet tarmac begins to rise on a steady incline, past discarded gloves and crumpled crisp packets, towards the moor.The dog’s moist nose rises to the wind, elated at the prospect of the bristly heather. A wintry gust blows down the road rustling the hedges; it spurs the boy and his dog on to pick up their pace. It is not long before they reach the upper path and the boy and his dog see slight shimmers of sunlight falling upon the peak. A translucent Coke bottle lies prostrate on the table; the Bose speakers stand arrogant and sharp, leaking music from their webbed exteriors. A mangled pack of cigarettes lies limp on the corner of the table and I am typing. Heavy, viscous rhythms invade me. My head is a pressure oven, blistering and
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