Toys

The small car was a Fiat or maybe a SMART car. It lingered as if going backwards. The mass of cars this late teatime surged past it. I was in the third car to make a dash for the freedom of open space in this rat run home when I saw the jumble of pink, purples, brown hair and assorted limbs. There was a high row of lifeless but moving toys in the back of the small car. They made a small Roman amphitheatre of nylon and furry animals. Appearing on the driver’s side a large mop of curly dark hair could be seen.

Now the large call centre round about was coming up and the opening to the artificial football pitches was leaking cars into our way. I was connected by that glacial slow umbilical cord which connects cars in the seated semi-coma of traffic jams.
We both had to let some cars in from the parents taking kids back from the clubs at the football pitches. Blonde haired women in miserable face masks in demon eyed four by fours forced a way in. While the male counterpart sped into the line of metal like dye working itself into an intravenous drip.

Relief. A short line of one bus, one Volvo and a personalised number plated Audio.

The roundabout was about to free. I, waited with the clutch up and saw the giraffe and whales near the other side.
The alloy wheel like a chunk star was what I caught. The rest of the sporty Vauxhall Corsa smashed into the zoo.

And time slowed as the dumpy capsule rolled smashing and laying fragments all around the road till it finished roof down half on and off the roundabout. He had stopped dead-losing only the front left headlight. His adapted seat had him lower down like a ship on the horizon.

Turning left and getting right onto the wide grass verge I stuck the hazards on. The bus driver had ran back from the stop leaving passengers on and off the bus. I ran past some drivers angry they had been stopped from inching home.
There was only a hairline cut on the lady’s scalp. She spoke as she lay hanging.
‘Hold her head, son.’ The bus driver said.
‘Your hands son.’ She said.
The toys were everywhere as the sirens’ sound came from the town centre’s direction.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s