MENDINGHAM FICKLEPOST
We sat at the edge of the quay, and I was
so distressed. Twelve years old, in a foreign
land, and going crazy with the realization
that I'd never get home. The singers kept
walking by, two guys and a girl, practicing
these inane park-like songs, things you'd
hear on the carousel or at some Twickingham
Park somewhere. Not here. People laughing,
not at me, I hoped. Funny little tourist kid,
taken by force, to a foreign land, by two creepy
padres thinking they owned me. Father
Flim and Father Flam; I called them that.
Boy's Town, my ass. They were having chocolate
drinks now, on the table nearby - two silly
men, sucking yellow straws to draw up a
brown liquid. I sat there, transfixed by the
idea that, soon enough, they would die. If I
didn't kill them, I was sure boredom would.
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