Philadelphia

We took our turns around the swing. It was one of those old fashioned set ups they rarely incorporate in modern playgrounds. I can't help but always feel as if kids are getting gypped from probably the most diverting piece of brilliancy: the thing I can't even put a name to. What are those called? Merry-go-round swings? I guess that's the best I can assume. It was twilight; a time of day I find enlightening and disarming simultaneously. It's strange how you can gain inspiration from an entity entirely impossible. People accumulate inspiration from God. How is that possible? If it is, can I try it?

He snapped his fingers directly above my forehead; I felt as if I had just gotten out of a trance. A trance of the gears and levers churning inside my conscience, focusing on every bit of evidence and detail. I followed him to that cranny under the tree where she was waiting. The three of us laid supine and gazed. A breeze was creeping up on the hairs beneath my ears. The nape of my neck tingled with a peculiar itch. It felt as if a rain drop had stamped my neck. Bringing my finger pads to the spot of supposed contact, sure enough I felt dampness. There was no way for any rain drop to land on me. No dew covered the grass. I certainly was not sweating the least bit. No one had sneezed or coughed or even murmured a breath, for that matter. Still, though, I know what I felt.

I put the inquiry on hold. To my left, I cast my gaze on him, the slits of my eyes not revealing their point of location. He was always claiming to have a gift of the senses. He said his eyes, fingers, ears, tongue, and nose all had these supersonic attachments to them in which any bit of conversation could be heard (distance was not an issue) and he knew the feeling of every thread. Well, he most definitely didn't know the texture of my underwear, I thought adamantly. That was one territory he would never visit. She and I often wondered if his proclamations were phony. I suppose for the time being, they are. Because I have never seen him practice any of the elaborate gifts he spoke so highly of. Turning to my right, she was not looking at the sky as he was. Her eyes were closed. I knew she was only thinking one thing: how she wish I weren't here. I stayed out of any business between the two of them. We all knew he wanted me, and she wanted him. I took no part of any conflict or stage of affection. He used her, but for some reason, the three of us would never dare to leave each other's sides.

There will always be a difference, however, between the way certain people devote their thinking. First and forward, she spends her thoughts on fantasizing. She'll never be anything but ordinary. All her seemingly dull intentions will accomplish just that: a dull outcome. She'll always be second best to me, no matter what. He, on the other hand, will succeed. I'll have no part in it--I'll even try to stop him with all my capacity. Why will he bring fortune upon himself? He spends his time thinking about the aesthetics of everything. Every. Thing. He pays no attention to the petty, as she does. Petty including herself, unfortunately. In some ways I admire him, but I find him more despicable than anything.

When did my thoughts turn from present to past to present again?

I'll take a stab in the dark and say tonight she breaks her arm. On purpose. So he'll help her.

The drop on my neck was my own tear. Gravity found it executed on my neck. I wasn't aware I was crying.


/end fiction writing