by Annalisa Crawford
She walks her dog in the dog-walking field every day. It’s not a field, really. It’s a cross-hatch of muddy paths and farmland given over to nature, with views across two wide, docile rivers, and a dense copse in the hollows harbouring birds and squirrels and rabbits within its knitted branches.
As she passes hedgerows with tangled branches dangling over the path, she crumbles the bark beneath her fingers as if to reassure herself it’s real. She climbs a gate and stands on the penultimate rung, shins pressed against the metal to balance herself, and exclaims, “Isn’t it beautiful?”, to anyone who passes.
On sunny days, her voice is calm and ambient; on windy days, it bounces across the fields and estuary like a leaf and can’t be caught. When it rains, her face is dewy and flushed, and the words trickle from her lips. When it’s foggy, they’re caught, entangled in the viscosity while she vanishes from view.
She always stops, always smiles with serene satisfaction; always inhales the fresh air which seems to lift her high above the gate, far above the fields. Arms stretched wide, eyes closed, buffeted by the current.
Today her smile is dampened on the drizzle. Her joyfulness mislaid; she gazes listlessly across the bleak valley. River mist hangs like cobwebs.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I venture, unsure my words carry the same credence as hers.
They don’t travel far; they cluster around my ankles like puppies waiting for treats. They edge nervously towards her, nipping her hand until she absently bats them away. But they persist, these words of mine, jumping up at her with puckish charm.
She nods her acknowledgement, but her countenance is lacklustre. Her knuckles turn white as her grip on the gate intensifies.
“We’re so lucky to live here,” I say.
“Yes,” she replies, wistfully. “To be alive here.”
She stares in my direction, but not at me. Her smile is silky, and she releases her rigid grip on the gate. Her feet drift from the metal bars and, with arms spread wide, she rises— simultaneously enraptured by her destiny and stunned at the heights she’s achieving.
I reach out—to drag her back or to be swept along with her, I have no idea which I’d prefer—but she’s already a dot in the cloud-dappled sky.
Annalisa Crawford writes dark contemporary fiction with a hint of paranormal. Annalisa has earned numerous accolades in various competitions and awards including the Wishing Shelf Book Awards, the Rubery Book Award and the Costa Short Story Award. She is a novelist and short story writer. Website: annalisacrawford.com
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