The Cacographer

The story of something short and to be finished on time. (Fast Fiction Go!)

      He never realized what the sidewalks meant to him, she told him, fourteen years and beginning to bust, piles of flesh spiraling wildly from her core. He wondered, briefly, why she said realized. No fourteen year girl says realized. They say sidewalk, sometimes, yes he’d heard that before, he thought while the chalk circles spread around him like the veins of tumors.
       He scratched his chin with the back of his hand. His back hurt and he didn’t like this girl, fourteen and at work at the sidewalk in a miniskirt, the visible panties emblazed with a wonton daisy, a smile transformed to smirk by context. Her ass is huge, he realized, and couldn’t tell if the shameful turgid was encouraged or thrown into further eddies at this realization. He shouldn’t be using this word. “Why’d you say realized?” She looked up for the first time since his feet scuffed the spiraling lines and she’d sighed from her shoes (simple and heelless) to her hair (fantastic and breathing) and chided him with tones deeper than she was. Her eyes were brown and too open he saw now she was a girl to avoid. They were simply too open he told Bruce later, once he’d picked over the minefields that were the suburbs to his own cranny in the wrinkled hillside. They were just too wide and you know, he told him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, man,” Bruce replied, respectfully. Jim felt the silence like a hesitation in breathing and didn’t reply. Neither did Bruce.
       “Because you’re an old idiot. And you stepped on my lines. I’m fucking drawing.” “How old are you?” She blinked like a lizard. “Fourteen.” No question. Jim felt turgid.
       The girl didn’t look down or go back to drawing and he was beginning to run out of things to look at that weren’t her illegal cleavage that somehow managed not only to exist, but to thrive on the pubescent soil. He scratched his chin again and realized there was not any need to be polite not with her eyes as they were. So he stared at her tits.
       “You’re staring at my tits.” “Yes.”
       The girl began drawing again, pulling the yellow spiral out from where she sat and away from the glow of purple and orange she’d pressed into the concrete and into the adjacent concrete squares where finally, with a hesitation like breathing, she pushed the chalk over his shoes and laughed.

posted by OrangeDrink @ 3:36:00 AM