Throw
Pink, purple paper. Hearts over the lower case i's. Blocky handwriting slanting down to the side. Droplets of blood that trailed across the lawn from her house to his. He dropped it as he ran yelping and holding his face. I followed, I stopped. The note in the grass. For years there was a revolving door of occupants in the house two doors down from mine. A hazy myriad of faces, some clearer than others. Just ancillary variables to the constant of he and me. Next door neighbor, closest friend. His house right of mine, separated by a brick wall easily scalable with the right momentum. His yard was an arena for the enacted whims of our imagination. Not uninhibited. Structured with arbitrary but no less vital parameters of our own design. The games we made. With roles that were hewn from the influence of cartoons and video games and grafted on to our bodies and minds. Goku, Batman, and Luke Skywalker were our patrons. Entire worlds created to live a day or two without the judgement o...