Crack, whir, slap,

Under the smog and streetlamps, the city streets were only angles of black and yellow. She rolled past the fenced lots and dark buildings, her body swaying lazily over the skateboard as the rhythmic crack of wheel and sidewalk announced her path.

A few people still huddled outside the barely awake pubs. They looked up from red tipped cigarettes as she wove through them, sending muttered curses skyward like scattered birds. She ignored the shrill caws,  already past and moving before their surprise could evolve into anything more vicious.

Crack, whir, slap. The board was loud, louder than she ever was on her feet. Her lip twitched at the bold rhythm.

During the day, when the sun baked the pale concrete and sticky asphalt, she avoided the skate parks and parking lots where others held up phones to capture achievements and particularly amusing failures. Their boards were loud too, but their braying and snorted chortles were booming. The noise drove her away even as she rolled up along the sidewalk outside the chain-link fence.

Now though, with the heavy chain woven through the chain-link gate, the smooth basins and worn rails were empty and soaked in yellow from the street lamps. Her wheels’ tempo slowed. A moment later, it stopped. The rattle of hands and feet on metal fence shortly filled the dark spaces between concrete.

I challenged Raw Rambles this week to write something to or inspired by SIAMÉS’s The Wolf. I did the same. 

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One response to “Crack, whir, slap,

  1. Pingback: The Three Wolves of Politics | raw rambles

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