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Matchstick Girl

Monday, Sep 14, 2020
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This article was featured in Issue #5 of the Atlantic Bulletin

Another paint-sketch — a painting done fast. I’m trying to learn to a) paint and b) paint on an industrial scale.

She’d missed the fast tram, caught a tiny splinter in her thumb, lost a button and now the match wouldn’t strike. It just wasn’t her day.

They were in Callaisn (pronounced ka-lane), a borough of the capital Tzipora regarded as “the worst of them” for its tall buildings and labyrinthian concrete alleys. “Bad people, bad food, bad smells” she said, flashing the tact she was known for. “Let’s go home.”

Callaisn was an oddity, built largely by the British during the occupation years in the fashion of London. It was nonetheless a thoroughly Vekllei borough, with its parks and tramways and rivulets, but it had a continental skyline marked by tower blocks and skyscrapers. A lot of boring business was done in Callaisn that Tzipora didn’t care about.

Cobian frowned as Tzipora rotated a second match between her thumb and finger. She didn’t like this nasty little habit she’d picked up. “You’ll smell like your dad if you keep this up,” she said.

“Suits me,” said Tzipora.