Maybe a Miracle.

God stood at his usual spot.

Near the grey lamppost at the far end of Borthwaite Parade.

 Endlessly watching, unrecognised.

 Lives buzzed past, huffing and puffing, shopping bags pulling them towards the pavement as the rain arrowed down on their drenched and sodden heads. Preoccupied with existing. Hoping for something.

Maybe a miracle.

Out of the gloom came Ryan. Swagger punctured into a loping uncertain stride. In his left hand the neck of a bottle protruded from a plastic bag. Every few steps he pecked at the bottle like a frustrated blackbird scrabbling for worms on frozen ground.

At the lamppost he stopped to light a cigarette. Met God's eye and looked away. The match had gone out in the rain.
"Got a light mate?"
"Aye. Got plenty a light," God said. "Light a the world an all that...."
"Funny guy. Taking the piss..."

Ryan lurched on, slurring the same question to anyone who didn't magnetically move out of his way.

Reaching the road, Ryan went tripping off the pavement. He was falling into the headlamps. He was blinded. The van was in his face.

It was passing him.

On it skimmed.

Ryan was sitting on the pavement scratching his head. Wondering what just happened. His smashed Buckfast bottle forming green jewels all across the road.

A little boy hunched in grown up clothes.

Lost.

As God watched from his usual spot.






   

Bolt (100 words)

The gun cracks and fires everyone to life again. The stretched elastic seconds of hush are released. I unfurl my back and my legs piston into motion.  I zone out, channel the crescendo of  voices, the frenzy of emotion and never let go of the line. Colours are liquid, bobbing in the distance and I am moving across my dance floor. I am a hunted gazelle in a cheetah's body rushing to freedom. And all too soon I am pointing. Draping the flag around my shoulders. Joining the party and dancing. Touching skin in a volley of high-fives. I am untouchable.



Photo copyright Daily Mail.