In the meanwhile, here's a little snippet. The story is called "I Wish I Could Fly" and it's about - well, probably not what you think it's about...
Tony
I Wish I Could Fly
‘I wish I could fly.’
I look
up from the bright black eyes of the tiny little bird in my hands. Granda sits on his deck chair in the tiny,
cold shed, he has his favourite pigeon, King Charlie, in his hands, fat and
content and white and grey, and I can’t see his eyes under the perfect white of
his flat cap.
For a
minute I’m not sure he has spoken at all.
At our side through chicken wire a dozen pigeon burr and purr filling
the air with the warm, dry smell that only smells of pigeons and nothing else
at all in the universe. Outside it is
raining, the noise of the drumming rain as loud as if we were standing in it,
but Granda’s shed is clean and cold and bone dry.
Then
Granda looks up and smiles, his cat green eyes shining from a brown face that
is nothing but wrinkles and scars and teeth as brown as conkers. He holds up King Charlie, and lets him
go. The big fat pigeon flutters across
the little room and lands on its perch with a comfortable shiver.
‘Would
you fly away, Granda?’ I ask slowly.
Grandpa
lifts his mug of Bovril Plus to his lips.
I don’t know what the Plus is, but it is an amber liquid that made my
eyes water when Granda told me to sniff it.
Granda drops it in his Bovril as generously as someone putting cream in
their coffee. Before he drinks he smiles
again.
‘Where
else would I want to be?’ Granda replies.
