You see a mother with a baby. The baby has the face of an old man, the mother of a newborn infant. You can’t tell which one is which.
Seagulls stare at you from rooftops and lamp posts. Every time you look back, they’re a little bit closer.
You’re riding the number 8 bus. You hear children running about on the top deck, but you could have sworn you were the only passenger.
Students crowd the pavement. They roll towards you, a solid wave of people. Are they getting taller? Is the street getting narrower?
Green parakeets eye you from the telephone wires. They don’t talk. Of course they don’t talk.
You stand on the cliff and stare out at the ocean. Something dark and glistening moves beneath the grey water.
Bleak House looks down at the town. Sometimes you think you see someone moving at the windows. But the house is closed for the season.
It’s Dickens Week. You congratulate someone on their meticulous Victorian costume. “Costume?” they say. They look at you in confusion, and move on.
© 2017 A.S. Olivier
A.S. Olivier is a freelance editor. She lives in Thanet with the seagulls and parakeets.