Twisting Roads Text and photos by Andris Feldmanis
The road was twisting. Not in a violent way, but swinging me from side to side like a baby in a cradle. The morning was gone. Iâ€™d had a small breakfast as we were meeting for lunch.
When I got out of the car, there was nobody there. I checked the time. Not noon yet, I was five minutes early. Then a sharp bang went crackling through the air, like a gun shot or a balloon exploding. I turned around, but nobody was there. Then running on a distant street, nothing else.
I checked the time again, it was thirteen minutes past. I dialed the number. I waited for the voice on the other side. Dial tone. Three times. Then Silence. The battery had died. I cursed and threw the phone back inside the car, the warm air of leather interior catching me before I closed the door. I waited.
In the distance a small boy, no more than eight years old was limping along, carrying something. The more I looked, the smaller he got, soon not more than a speck of color on the horizon. I checked the time again - twenty five minutes and still nothing. I got angry. I was there waiting, you stupid fuck. I drove all the way here.
I opened the car door and got in. It was hot as hell, soon the air-conditioning would kick in and bring relief. I turned the ignition key, the car rattled for a short second, but then denied. Again. And again. Nothing. I was sweating all over, the damp clothes sticking to my body. Nothing.
When I got out, the cold breeze hit me like a subtle surprise. It felt late, as if the day was already over. I wanted to call for help, but there was nobody there. Just walls of brick and concrete and windows and signs and doors. No cars, no dogs. No specks of color on the horizon. I started walking.
And I walked.