Freewrites

The first of perhaps many little meanderings, created beneath the hustling, clanging, melee of a fast-food chain's squalid kitchen.

Finding compassion in others by thinking of them as children -- thinking of them as when they were children, when they were young, salubrious, dreamers, givers, innocently happy and excited over a snake in the grass, a dandelion spree, a Mayday bouquet of candies and mystery left on their doorstep as they scanned the front yard with giddy earnestness, hoping to chase down that sneaky secret admirer with whom the child could strafe with kisses and bind with grateful embraces, after which he sits happy with warm-milk-swollen belly and coughs as he watches his dog abominate the neighbor's shrubbery, smiles, and imagines his life as a ball player, reaching for his glove, tattered, scarred face of a silent constant friend, his mom plays the soft, crackling Dixie Jazz Special on the dust-encased record player, skipping every now and then, the stutter of staccatos punctuating each idyllic syllable of each waning moment as the sweat produces sweet-smelling dew at the back of his neck, cold and real, a sensory flag of his future memory for all things good that stand still.  

Author's Note

Yay.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

what a nice write...can you come out and play