Look!
Look at this whimsical object.
It's a child's plaything, a rubber bouncing circle.
It's had little girl mucus upon its thick shell, little boy spittle covering its hide.
Mom and Dad, Grandpa and Granny tears that once streamed down its mottled features when they thought about not being able to use this object again with younger generations.
LOOK!
Look at this, it's an interesting, whimsical object!
It's a black, green, and white gravity-defying child's plaything!
I remember when that bouncing sphere was mine.
I was in my front yard one day, enticing the neighbor's kid with that object.
Look at this, boy!
Look at how this item is captivating and funny!
I can make you laugh by ricocheting it off my knee, and making frenzied dashes after it.
I remember throwing it to him, wanting to share the magical ecstasy that radiated out of the germ-ridden, black, green, and --BAM!
It hit him. Right in the nose, it hit him.
Having let the ball fall, he paused for a moment, then went flailing back to his yard, sobbing, blubbering, screeching for Daddy, his chubby face braided like a wrung towel.
I put down the dappled, time-worn sphere which now had spatterings of little red dots streaking across the rubbery surface.
I considered what had just happened.
Suddenly, it wasn't an interesting object anymore. |
Submission Name: The Sphere
