Tiger, The Bastard In Hiding

Posted: March 24, 2013 in Uncategorized

The centerfielder, smiling and gripping his bat, stood unflinching as the thin metal spokes slapped his face one after the other, as the bicycle rolled down the street in vain pursuit of a ice cream truck speeding away, playing a child’s piano version of O Fortuna at triple speed to match the 35 miles an hour it traveled. With a sigh and a skid, the bicycle went sideways, skipping a rock the size of a marble up into the air and sending a child the size of a cedar chest sliding across the pavement, thinly shredding flesh from bone and revealing blood to air. The ice cream truck became an afterthought, its sight and sound faded from perspective before it faded from perception as skinned knees met the formative point of machismo and wincing and grunting through grit teeth did their best to fight away tears and ultimately failed. The sobbing and wailing was gone, leaving a son to limp home with a bicycle, minus one baseball card, to show up bloody, dirty, and sweaty, trying to be strong and reassure his mother that he was fine and simply needed some soap and a bandage to clean away his recklessness.

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