Coralie Dahl

Excerpt from my story, 'Wizards' Folly'.

Coralie halted in front of a red light at the crossing, unaware of the three unsavoury characters behind her. A tram rolled around the corner with a squeak. Such a hindrance they were to her—such an outdated method of transportation, restricted by two ridiculous metal slivers in the ground, which had caught her tyres more than once. Why couldn’t people just take the underground, or go by bus? That way cyclists like herself would not be bothered by these bulking behemoths, slowly running in their tracks, turning, twisting through the city like demented snakes. The twenty seconds it took to pass were endless in her mind. She couldn’t wait for her day to end, and if her phone didn’t ring by one in the afternoon, she’d consider it an end to the day indeed. She aimed to deliver on her own promise of bubbles and wine. Who cared if it would still be in the afternoon? That was the bliss of being an adult, was it not? To make one’s own decisions, stupid or not.

When the little green man in the traffic light replaced its red colleague, Coralie was off, shouting angrily at a taxi driver who had the audacity to cut her off. She braced herself for the tourist-laden Main Square, where pedestrians believed that walking on the bike lanes was their prerogative. What was the point, then, of having bike lanes in the first place? The city really ought to do something about that—after fixing the homeless situation.

With her mind unfavourably occupied, Coralie pedalled on, annoyed at constantly being slowed down—though she wasn’t going fast to begin with. Although her pace was inconvenient to her, it was very convenient for the three men behind her, as there was no need for them to run.

Main Square was packed, as expected around noon. It was surprising how dense a population would willingly squish itself into an otherwise large, open space. Coralie had grouped the mass into three categories, which she named the meat-munchers, pigeon-prowlers, and selfie-snappers. The meat-munchers were negligible to her; they mostly crowded around hotdog sellers or shawarma stalls and would peck away at their food sitting on far-off benches. Much more cumbersome were the city’s dirty, flying rats, which would peck away at scraps sown by the pigeon-prowlers. This created vast circles of spectators and feeders, intrigued by flocks of frantic feathers, which eagerly gobbled up such delicacies as greasy chips and cigarette butts.

But the worst of the lot were the selfie-snappers. Tourists and Starbucks-touring girls in their tweens,all desiring that perfect selfie with the old palace on the background. At least the pigeon-prowlers could be given a wide berth; the selfie-snappers, however, would backtrack swiftly and without warning, blinded by their own vanity, focusing on the world through a tiny LCD-lit screen. It forced any passer-by (particularly of the cycling variety) to a sudden, screeching halt.

Coralie groaned as she weaved left and right, dodging oblivious tourists, having to go well around the bike lanes. She glanced at some street artists posing as living statues, their acts continuously failing, either because of people’s meddling, or their own ineptitude. And, of course, before she could pass through the blur of people, another tram passed by to hinder her progress. It was a miracle it hadn’t rained yet on top of all things, although she supposed that would be the perfect end to the day.