[Note: This short story that is not so short is being serialized and rewritten in my blog. This is the third installment.]
O.K., I won't lie. I really don't have one yet, but I make it a point to get on every day. I figure if I get a good thirty minutes in, that's a great start. (Of course, now I'm trying to type, and my husband decided to start praying over me. Pause.)
I don't like missing sleep, but it may have to be in the evenings. That way, my son won't be closing my lap top every time (and it's often) he feels I am giving it too much love.
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“What do you say?” commanded his father and added, “Freaking kids. Send them in to get water, and they want sugar,”
Before answering, Sad and Jack ran out the door.
Sad scanned the scene before him. There were peddlers with old canned goods. A rare, old woman selling puppies and kittens. In the distance, Sad spotted a small group of raggedy kids. He turned back to his little brother.
“Ah Jack! Why didn’t you wait?” said Sad, slapping Jack behind his head.
“I like to eat mine,” he said as purple slobber dribbled down his chin, “Whatcha gonna trade yours for?”
“A hell, I dunno. Maybe a sling shot. Maybe a puppy,” he answered scratching a spot on the top of his head.
Jack giggled, “A puppy? No way! Can’t keep one of those.”
“Can’t have a bike either,” retorted Sad.
Jack’s face contorted, “You don’t know anything about puppies.”
“Look stupid! I’m two years older than you! I know my letters, and I’m old enough to have one!”
“You’re seven. I’m five, and I know my letters better than you!”
“Shut up,” Sad pushed Jack on the ground, but that only encouraged his teasing.
“What letter comes after G?” taunted Jack.
“Go fuck yourself!” Sad walked away. He turned to give Jack a dirty look, but he was already marching confidently to the group of kids. Sad sighed heavily and ran to catch up. They stopped two yards before the defiant group. Sad inspected their feet. One of them wore makeshift shoes made out of Coke can holders and some sort of green plastic. The girl was wearing clothes that were too big. One of the boys had orange hair and a black eye. He only wore blue shorts. The other boy wore a spotless white shirt and black pants. He had dark hair and pale skin. Sad’s skin crawled just looking at him. He was so clean, Sad wanted to drag him down the street and infest his hair.
“What you got ‘ta trade?” asked a tough voice. It was the boy with the shorts and orange hair.
“Nothing with you sorry shorts!” answered Sad.
The boy looked uncertain, “I’m no short! I’m ten years old.”
The girl scratched her head, staring longingly at Jack’s lollypop, “Ah, he ain’t got a damn thing to trade.”
“Does too!” yelled Jack, “My brother has all kinds of stuff!”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?” asked the girl.
“Nothing to trade with you licey losers,” Sad answered, holding his hands down tight.
The girl scratched her head harder, “Let’s go Rob. These kids are stupid.”
On reflex, Jack spat out the white stick and tackled the girl. Taking on the boy with red hair, Sad followed suit. The other boy stepped back and watched; even in Gila Bend, Arizona, fair was fair.
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