Bushwhack

Marcel preferred to think of himself as ornamental gardener. He had more than a BTEC under his belt and wasn’t shy about modeling his own work. When asked how he managed to sculpt with such precision he would reply with obvious pride, “I have a very flexible spine.” 

But Marcel was bored with his work at the beauty salon. His clients were housewives, young professionals and students who believed a regular trim kept their husbands faithful or their boyfriends interested or, if they were single, that it would give them enough confidence to get laid. Most of them weren’t adventurous. He was tired of Brazilians, Californians and the ubiquitous Bikini. His skill was going to waste, his art deserved a wider audience. Marcel had a vision. One day he would gather together enough performance artists to stage a gallery opening. Each actor would stand on a plinth, like classical Greek statues, so his work could be viewed at the correct eye-level. It would be a glorious moment. Then, maybe then, his father would stop calling him a Bushwhacker.


Kelli B.

*  *  *

A bushwhacker muttering about a girl in a grey dress marched past the convoy of comedians. They were heading to the next spring fair, where they were hoping to please the crowds and their starving bellies. But there wouldn't a fair expecting them in that village. Instead of an audience, there would be a mournful angry mob who would feed them to the crows.

Hélène L.