Opening for Spray Paint
(Slightly re-written)
Humid the air grows as the heat of the late summer day melts into a balmy night. Local children swarm to nearby woods to play classic games such as manhunt and capture the flag. Parents sigh as the houses are drained of childish distractions. The majority of these relieved adults head outside to their perfectly manicured backyards where they light Citrinella candles and drink foreign liquor. All of these sounds drift around the mass of cul de sacs and quaint blocks molded into a town. In doing so, they form a sort of music.
Not quite music, though. More like a monotone droning beat with no categorized music name. A classic sound more of a city person would tape to help them sleep because their unnecessary neurotic tendencies won't grant them the pleasure of slumber. After taped it would be neatly labeled "Summer Night" and most likely be lost in the commotion of the city. Though most residents of the town enjoy this bliss straight out of a modern family sitcom, one does not.
A cool breeze drifts pleasantly and carries the sickly-sweet smell of garbage, vodka, and too much Febreeze. The sun sets, creating a Technicolor sky a kindergartener's new box of crayons (74 pack, of course) would envy. A relatively short girl, around thirteen or fourteen in age, sits in a time-worn green dugout. The reasons for most of the color being mold and not paint gives it a distinct mildew scent. The field before her, littered with soda cans and candy wrappers, is scarcely used for recreation anymore.
The glow of dusk casts shadows across the childhood wasteland. The swollen-looking water tower looms ominously over the graveyard of garbage. This metal and concrete monstrosity takes away from the almost country feel of the area, but at least gives the local teens something to create suburban legends around.
In the decaying wooden box the girl looks half-asleep and disgusted at the transformation of the place she often played tee ball as a spastic young child. Strands of long blonde hair shift over a tattered Nantucket sweatshirt as she rises abruptly. Because time has sunk the wooden frame of the dugout deep into the ground it takes a bit of effort for her to crawl out. Her red Conversed feet plod dully on the muddy, sandy soil. Loose, old jeans drag frayed, dirty bottoms through the wet grit beneath them.
She nears a chain link fence and hops it clumsily, though with the air of someone who has done this many times before. She treads through a patch of ill-placed gravel to get to the side of a white building. She reaches for the bulge in her largest pocket with a hand-attached flame patch on it. With a few quick shakes and the push of a button paint flies out of pinpoint hole. Marks turn to lines and lines to letters. A dripping liquid message burns in contrasting obsidian and reads one words:
RESPECT
(Slightly re-written)
Humid the air grows as the heat of the late summer day melts into a balmy night. Local children swarm to nearby woods to play classic games such as manhunt and capture the flag. Parents sigh as the houses are drained of childish distractions. The majority of these relieved adults head outside to their perfectly manicured backyards where they light Citrinella candles and drink foreign liquor. All of these sounds drift around the mass of cul de sacs and quaint blocks molded into a town. In doing so, they form a sort of music.
Not quite music, though. More like a monotone droning beat with no categorized music name. A classic sound more of a city person would tape to help them sleep because their unnecessary neurotic tendencies won't grant them the pleasure of slumber. After taped it would be neatly labeled "Summer Night" and most likely be lost in the commotion of the city. Though most residents of the town enjoy this bliss straight out of a modern family sitcom, one does not.
A cool breeze drifts pleasantly and carries the sickly-sweet smell of garbage, vodka, and too much Febreeze. The sun sets, creating a Technicolor sky a kindergartener's new box of crayons (74 pack, of course) would envy. A relatively short girl, around thirteen or fourteen in age, sits in a time-worn green dugout. The reasons for most of the color being mold and not paint gives it a distinct mildew scent. The field before her, littered with soda cans and candy wrappers, is scarcely used for recreation anymore.
The glow of dusk casts shadows across the childhood wasteland. The swollen-looking water tower looms ominously over the graveyard of garbage. This metal and concrete monstrosity takes away from the almost country feel of the area, but at least gives the local teens something to create suburban legends around.
In the decaying wooden box the girl looks half-asleep and disgusted at the transformation of the place she often played tee ball as a spastic young child. Strands of long blonde hair shift over a tattered Nantucket sweatshirt as she rises abruptly. Because time has sunk the wooden frame of the dugout deep into the ground it takes a bit of effort for her to crawl out. Her red Conversed feet plod dully on the muddy, sandy soil. Loose, old jeans drag frayed, dirty bottoms through the wet grit beneath them.
She nears a chain link fence and hops it clumsily, though with the air of someone who has done this many times before. She treads through a patch of ill-placed gravel to get to the side of a white building. She reaches for the bulge in her largest pocket with a hand-attached flame patch on it. With a few quick shakes and the push of a button paint flies out of pinpoint hole. Marks turn to lines and lines to letters. A dripping liquid message burns in contrasting obsidian and reads one words:
RESPECT