Dydd Farchnad

She smiled as she kicked him.

An ugly, ragged, Tomcat like grin broke out across her mottled, blotchy face, exposing her toothless gums to the cold, damp, morning air.

She took aim once more and with the precision of a laser guided weapon her right foot made contact with the prostrate man’s face, whipping his head back and forth with a sickening jolt, his skull shuddering to a halt as it made contact with the wet, bullet grey pavement.

She stood above him, her limbs flailing, agitated, her face contorted into a grotesque mask, spittle dripping from her open mouth as she greedily gulped down as much air as her lungs would take.

He lay there like a rag-doll, his body limp and broken, the wound to his face exposed and angry, a fountain of deep, rich crimson blood gushing from his nose, quickly forming into a large pool where he lay.

He looked old.

Maybe 65.

He was probably a lot younger.

Perhaps 30.

Time had played tricks on some of the inhabitants of Smalltown, their inherited self-destruct button programmed long before they left their Mother’s breast.

The girl now ranted.

And raved, hurling obscenities at those who would listen, and to those who wouldn’t.

Or couldn’t.

She pointed at the broken man lying before her and screamed,

“touch my fuckin’ giro again and you’re fuckin’ dead”

Her friend took her by the arm, whispered something in her ear and led her away at speed, down the covered walkway to the bustling market.

I heard them laugh as they opened a can of lager.

Passing shoppers carefully avoided the rag-doll man, gingerly stepping around the messy heap they found blocking their way.

A man came out of the chip shop and asked if an ambulance had been called.

There was no response.

Thursday, was market day.

Jones(2010)

© Walker & Jones 2011