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Volume 2 Number 2 • Fall - Winter 2010-2011
The mountain of dirty, crusted snow was turning to slush. Another winter morning in Chicago. Pedestrians huddled next to buildings—not to look in shop windows—pre and post Christmas sales had drained every pocketbook in the city—but to avoid being splashed by careening cars. The bus rumbled to the stop, five feet from the curb, five feet filled with Arctic ice melt. The bus door opened; a short man in a long, seen-better-days coat peered out, small blue eyes blinking. He moved cat-like to the last step. The people against the buildings saw his turmoil: the near certainty of an ice bath; the slim chance of finding safety on the curb. Then, he gathered himself, gracefully arced in a grande jetée, and crossed the icy chasm. His feet touched the sidewalk, and the crowd smiled and cheered, applauding with the muffled beat of mittens. He bowed deeply to his audience. They moved on, carrying that balletic movement with them, that touch of theatrical surprise that softens the soul.
Townsend Walker is a writer living in San Francisco. During a career in finance he published three books: on foreign exchange, on derivatives, and the last one on portfolio management. Five years ago he went to Rome and started writing fiction inspired by cemeteries, foreign lands, paintings, family, and strong women. His stories have been published in over two dozen literary journals, print and on-line, and read on the radio.