'The Orange Kite' by Maria Sanger

It was spanking new and the woman unravelled the string fast. She relished the wind on her face, rather than the stale indoors. Finally, she was free like the young girl she’d once been. The canvas flapped in the wind and flew like an orange bird with a long-bowed tail. She tried to steer the kite first to the left and then to the right, but it was harder to control than she had thought. It responded keenly to every small movement, almost retaliating with an impulsiveness to reach new heights.

The woman scrambled along the footpath. Her heels gathered up twigs and leaves and she kicked layers of mud and shingle and roots of willow and alder. A rich earthiness of mushrooms rose up mixed with wild thyme and acorns. But the kite’s malice dragged her on.

On the opposite bank a girl with pigtails strolled with a labrador. The woman had owned such a dog once. At the sight of the kite’s tail, it leapt up, pulling the girl close to my river edge. The girl looked upwards and gave a sudden cry. She stood as though frozen in time, her mouth caught in an ‘O’ shape.

The woman looked down at her hands in disbelief, her mouth mirroring the young girl’s. The string had unravelled fully, unsecured to the control bar. The babbling of my waters continued, the movement of orange on its surface. I had seen this scene play out before – had heard the percussive rip of canvas on the willow branches – felt the rhythmic fluttering as the fragments touched the surface of my waters.