The prince was first to see it. “It’s coming,” he cried repeatedly, “It’s on the horizon.” At first, too few could hear him, but soon thousands listened. The crowd lifted him onto their shoulders allowing his words to travel further. “A grave danger approaches!” he cried.
Some in the crowd began shouting: “Prince! We see the danger, but it is already here…take your weapon and join us!” The prince stopped his lecturing to get the measure of what clamoured at the gates. He put on his spectacles as it burst through the barricades. The menace snaked across the land leaving death and destruction in its wake. The prince turned his back, removed his spectacles and stated dismissively: “I prefer that one” – pointing to the danger still lingering on the horizon.
The people endeavoured to show the prince that there was no difference between the danger on the horizon and the danger here present. Their kind offer of new spectacles, was politely declined. The crowd desperately fought the peril and the prince took his voice and retreated into silent seclusion.
The battle tore the crowd asunder and scattered it pell-mell across the land. This was, the prince estimated, the right moment to re-emerge. Waving away smoke from his freshly-shaven visage, he stepped over the bloodied and broken and without lowering his gaze, calmly repeated: “Did I not warn you?”
At the ramparts, the prince wiped blood from his shoes and brushed down his elegant tuxedo. Adjusting his coiffed hair, he made his way towards a gathering of familiar faces – all were well-dressed and dancing a slow waltz. “Glad you could join us,” said one gentleman. The prince glanced over his shoulder at the bloody chaos behind him. “I warned them about you,” he said nonchalantly, but his words rang empty across the hellscape.
THE HIGH STREET
The curtains in every window on the high street are still drawn and shielding warm, slumbering souls from a bitter cold that goes straight to your bones, as Mavis at number 24 would say. The only sound is the intermittent crunch of the dustbin truck. A young man throws bin-bags into the back of the truck as he does every morning, and every morning he stops to look at the same advert displayed in the estate agents’ window. That house, he thinks, would be nice. The truck trudges onwards without him, but a whistle from the driver prompts him to resume the Sisyphean task at hand.
As the crunching sound diminishes, the milk float appears through the mist, silently and otherworldly. Glass bottles clink and their foil tops flash in the float’s headlights as the milkman places pints on doorsteps. Two full-cream gold-tops for number twenty-four and a semi-skimmed silver-top for the estate agent. The milkman deftly picks up all the empty bottles with a finger in each one, all the while whistling Ravel’s Bolero, quite unobtrusively.
A line of yellow feet cling to the warmth of the electricity cable as life emerges below. Curtains twitch and street-lamps now purple, blink off. The sun rises behind the steel lattice of the overground-train bridge and lights suddenly flash on in the bakery. The baker fills the bread racks with fresh loaves. Steaming, jam-filled doughnuts and greasy apple fritters take their place behind the condensation-covered display-case. The baker’s wife brushes away a streak of flour from her husband’s beard before tying her apron and turning the sign around on the door: “We’re open!”
First at the bus-stop is the teenage boy in a puffer jacket. His gait is spritely and he claps his hands to warm them. Still a few minutes before the bus comes and he eyes the milk bottles. With a cigarette balancing on his bottom lip and a sleight of hand worthy of any magician, he picks up a gold-top pint and puts it inside his puffer jacket. The double-decker bus groans as it lurches around the corner and comes to a creaking halt. The automatic door hisses and releases a cloud of hot air which embraces the little thief as he hops onto the bus - money in hand, milk in jacket.
Mavis opens her door a few inches to bring in her milk, but not enough to let in that cold. Her old hand finds one bottle of milk, but not the other, again. The estate agent arrives to open up, carrying his briefcase and a small, greasy paper bag.
Clive, whose briefcase is used to carry his sandwiches but not documents, will have a surprisingly good day, and he will celebrate with a cup of strong tea and a bag of apple fritters. Mavis, will not be giving Pickles the cat any full-cream milk, but will be giving the bakers an earful about their son. The bakers, who will be glad to sell more apple fritters than usual, will nonetheless find themselves giving away a box of doughnuts in lieu of three pints of pilfered milk. And as the bus groans under the weight of more passengers, the teenager, who pays for his bus fare but not for his breakfast, will gulp down Pickles’ full-cream milk.
The high street is more bitter still with that cold. The intermittent crunch of the dustbin truck interrupts the cold silence and the young man who throws bin-bags into the back of the truck, stops to look at the same advert displayed in the estate agents’ window. It has a red sticker placed over it. SOLD. The truck trudges onwards without him and through the mist comes the faint, unobtrusive sound of Ravel’s Bolero.
Bey is Algerian-English and was born and brought up in England. She is a researcher by trade and a dedicated collector of banal but precious anecdotes. Her work has appeared in Rowayat Literary Journal, the Beirut based literary journal Rusted Radishes, IHRAM (International Human Rights Art Movement) publication, Adelaide Literary Magazine and The Hemlock Journal.
Instagram: @selenebey_scribe
