Pedestrian
A head grew out of a shoe. It was a boy head. Not really, because it didn't have any sex organs, but it had the features of a young male. We could call it a "he."
He was on a sidewalk somewhere in the city, next to a pile of things someone had discarded. They were mostly shapes to him; the words "bookcase," "lamp," and "record player" had no meaning. He couldn't tell where the sidewalk ended and the lamp began. The whole street could've been one object for all he knew. The only distinctions between things occurred when he turned his head, when the view of the world changed.
He found that he could move by putting his chin down, quickly snapping it up, and allowing his shoe to follow through. With every snap he moved forward half the length of his sole. At first there was a flash of pain in his temples when he landed, but he quickly learned how to dull the impact by landing toes-first. The more he practiced, the better he got and the better his technique became. After twenty minutes of "walking," he could almost keep up with the people on the sidewalk.
The pedestrians saw him with a mixture of amusement and disgust. They kept their distance as they walked past, but there were some who smiled or chuckled. A woman in a short skirt wrinkled her face and walked briskly ahead, holding her skirt against her backside. Shopkeepers watched from their doorways, cigarettes in hand, marvelling at the head's efforts. Redfaced and breathing hard, he pressed on with grim resolve, as if he had to rescue someone he loved.
He walked nearly ten blocks. It was a miracle no one hit him when he crossed the streets. There were a few close calls; he learned to stop when cars whooshed past, waiting patiently at curbs or between lanes until it was safe to continue.
At 14th Street he stopped. Rock music played from a nearby bar and the subway trains below rumbled like movie thunder. He knew more about the world after ten blocks, the patterns and rhythm of traffic, the texture of the pavement through his sole, the difference between shadow and light. Deciding that this was the place where he'd stay, he backed into a cool spot under an overhang and watched the corner for a long time. It was busy. People walked past without noticing him, dogs sniffed at his hair and their owners would pull them away, the sun began to set, and businesses nearby closed for the night or opened for dinner. He grew tired.
By nightfall he'd sunk back into his shoe. The moon was full...
He was on a sidewalk somewhere in the city, next to a pile of things someone had discarded. They were mostly shapes to him; the words "bookcase," "lamp," and "record player" had no meaning. He couldn't tell where the sidewalk ended and the lamp began. The whole street could've been one object for all he knew. The only distinctions between things occurred when he turned his head, when the view of the world changed.
He found that he could move by putting his chin down, quickly snapping it up, and allowing his shoe to follow through. With every snap he moved forward half the length of his sole. At first there was a flash of pain in his temples when he landed, but he quickly learned how to dull the impact by landing toes-first. The more he practiced, the better he got and the better his technique became. After twenty minutes of "walking," he could almost keep up with the people on the sidewalk.
The pedestrians saw him with a mixture of amusement and disgust. They kept their distance as they walked past, but there were some who smiled or chuckled. A woman in a short skirt wrinkled her face and walked briskly ahead, holding her skirt against her backside. Shopkeepers watched from their doorways, cigarettes in hand, marvelling at the head's efforts. Redfaced and breathing hard, he pressed on with grim resolve, as if he had to rescue someone he loved.
He walked nearly ten blocks. It was a miracle no one hit him when he crossed the streets. There were a few close calls; he learned to stop when cars whooshed past, waiting patiently at curbs or between lanes until it was safe to continue.
At 14th Street he stopped. Rock music played from a nearby bar and the subway trains below rumbled like movie thunder. He knew more about the world after ten blocks, the patterns and rhythm of traffic, the texture of the pavement through his sole, the difference between shadow and light. Deciding that this was the place where he'd stay, he backed into a cool spot under an overhang and watched the corner for a long time. It was busy. People walked past without noticing him, dogs sniffed at his hair and their owners would pull them away, the sun began to set, and businesses nearby closed for the night or opened for dinner. He grew tired.
By nightfall he'd sunk back into his shoe. The moon was full...
posted by dave at 9:15 PM
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