One Foot
August 12, 2009 in Wordsmoker Short Fiction
Sheila knows the rule. One foot on the floor or the ground. This applies generally, like gravity, the drinking age, or the certainty that a quadratic equation must equal zero, no matter what turns and twists it takes through bracketed x’s and y’s, squares and cubes. One foot. The rule applies specifically to pool, as her father explained at the basement table. To throwing a softball from short to first, as her coach insisted. To her brother’s strange but successful racewalking in Oregon.
The traveler carries in his soft suitcase a brick. Among socks and pullovers and glossy magazines it is the center of gravity, and would sooner break than yield its shape; like the holdout that hangs a jury. The traveler bears the brick’s weight easily, but it is badly packed and grazes his left leg with each step.
The celebrities are stalking me.
