I threw myself out into the black air, all metallic skin and pulsing bones. The action almost made me sick. I struggled to steady my body while the streetlights shone beams of light directly into my eyes.

Wrapped up in dirty cotton, I had only one thing on my mind: concealment. Loping off into the dusty evening, I pulled my hood up over my head, my eyes sunken treasures at the bottom of my ruined face.

After stopping briefly to smother a patchwork cat with disdain, my quest underwent an injurious challenge. I filled the beggar's cup with heart cold phlegm and hunched my back like a fairytale bridge. Gloomy keyboardists descended with questions about illumination and I left them in the dark.

I fixed my hated shoes with a gaze usually reserved for misspelling. A shadow in a headscarf tried to engage me in political discussion almost instantly. I crossed the cracked street, narrowly avoiding a car full of exhortations of love. Idolaters congregated at a sixty degree angle eagerly awaiting the Next Big Thing. I broke wind loudly in their direction, content that they would not be able to carve a golden statue of shit particles floating in methane.

Noting my complete lack of personal success, I hurried towards my destination. Snippets of conversation fluttered down on me in an indecipherable paper hail and I removed the words “banging birds” from my ears with no small degree of irritation.

A shriek of sloppy babies rumbled towards me in their devices. Using my hair as a slick veil I made myself into a hiding place. Acquaintances bluebottled me and I honoured my noble self with the title of Worst Ninja Ever.

I juttered away like claymation, blaming the time for everything and finally I reached the portal to salvation. I passed the pillars of smoke and designer gear and was confronted by shelves of bewilderment. Locating the antidote quickly to avoid derangement I shovelled the weight from my pockets away and emerged back into the outside. I unwrapped the ennui-breaker and chewed it noisily. For several minutes my mouth became a crushing cavity filled with brown delicious.

Time passed.

After that things didn’t seem so bad for a while.


"The Grump"
Copyright: © 2010 John Harrower
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John Harrower 24, WM, NS, GSOH, OMG, WLTM interesting individuals that he can shamelessly use as characters in his flash fiction or put in ridiculous and often fantastical situations for embarrassing effect. Find him in Stirling, Scotland scrawling non sequiturs in underpasses.

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