Short Story Preview: Hate Street Dialogue
Just where Love Lane meets Hate Street there is a hanging tree. Quite why anyone would wish to hang a tree is anybody’s guess, but there it is, gently swinging from a lamppost. Its roots drip down in a wild tangle of knotty brown while its bushy leaves stretch out from their branches in a luxuriant splash of green. Just below the lowest branches the hairy brown rope of the noose cuts into the fleshy bark of the tree and white sap oozes pitifully from this wound.
It was under the Hanging Tree of Hate Street that I first met the Childwoman. Cold blue eyes stared wildly up at the tree from beneath an untamed fringe. Knotted black hair cascaded down to her shoulders. Her face, smeared with dirt, spoke of hardships beyond her years and her body floated waiflike within a loose fitting red cotton dress. Spindly legs with scabby knees fell from beneath the skirt hem and her small feet were encased in ill-fitting, worn black shoes.
The only other person around was a man in a black jacket, dark glasses and black hat who sat on a fold-up chair nearby and strummed absentmindedly on his guitar.
Read more about John and buy Cold Fiction to continue the storyShare