The kid turned his head to the right, and caught an eyeful of his own eternal glory in this moment - his image, reflected in a glass display window of some sporting store. His reflection matched almost a the mannequin behind the glass: a sleek alabaster plasticene model, arm at 90 degrees in perfect running form, torso pitched forward in the midfall of a stride. The model's clothes were pastels, robin's egg and one of two hundred shades of pink, and impossibly clean. The kid wore a grey hoodie, scuffed at the elbows, dark green with greying black tentacles printed all over. His face was almost as smooth and sharp as the mannequin, but his eyes had not just life but glee. He grinned and saluted the mannequin, stolen pipe still in hand, then his left foot pounded pavement and he was past it.
He tossed his prize from right to left hand, and glanced over his shoulder. His newest victim, a portly man in a checkered jacket and newsboy cap, had quit the chase after only a few steps, and now stood impotent, square, amid the mid-day pedestrian flow.
Mischief in full flow, the kid hopped out of his run, turning to face the poor son of a bitch who'd had the misfortune to stand too close to an impulsive moment. He grinned and brought the pipe, still lit, to his lips, and blew as hard as he could, spraying sparks and red tobacco into the air.
As per the plan - min 100 posts to the blog this year, and not all poetry. Gotta stretch the brain.
ReplyDelete