Gypsy Road

“Living in the city,” Bo said, “can be a cold and lonely place to be.” He raised his massive woolly head and horns up past the windshield of the Cadillac convertible. The Alberta prairie air rushed into his flared nostrils as he drove west down the Trans-Canada Highway.

Bo breathed in deeply and smiled.

His buddy, Hirc, swayed in the passenger seat while breathing music out of a red steel harmonica. He raised his hairy arm high to feel the wind current.

Bo loved his Cadillac. It was an Eldurato, ninth generation, an ‘85 custom painted the colour of golden wheat fields. It was freeing. He could take in the land’s scents. It wasn’t cramped like most roofed cars. He’d even drive the convertible in winter. Cold didn’t bother him.

“This is the highway that I run to,” Bo said. “This is where I’ll find my dreams.”

The music stopped. The white minotaur glanced at Hirc looking out over a landscape that stretched out to the horizon.

“Don’t worry buddy,” Bo tapped the satyr’s shoulder. “You’ll find yours too.”

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