The afternoon sun shone through the attic window, illuminating dust that had been stirred. Cameron pulled a box down from one of the many stacks and opened it.
“Looks like photos,” he said.
Tucked in a corner, Jake ignored the comment and continued to refold piles of clothing.
“Jake?”
“We don’t have time,” he replied, still folding.
Cameron pushed the box aside and reached up to grab another one.
“What years are they from?”, Jake asked.
Cameron shrugged, retrieved the box of photographs, and started rummaging through the mess of albums and loose pictures.
“There’s one here of you getting a red wagon for your birthday.”
Jake stopped folding for a moment and smiled.
“1972.”
“I think the wagon’s up here somewhere.”
“It is.”
Cameron reminisced about summer trips past as he flipped through an album.
You never forget the first time you get punched in the face. Maybe it’s different for those kids who got into fights all the time. For the rest of us, the first imprint of a fist on your skull never goes away.
Everyone on the playground sizes each other up. I knew I could take Corey Bremen, though I’d never laid a finger on him. I guess Ernie Moraes had sized me up and felt the need to prove it.
It happened quite unexpectedly. I had just finished marbles when he came at me from behind. Cheap shot. I guess it hurt too, but I was mostly shocked. I just told myself not to cry, because that would’ve been embarrassing.
“You’re dead meat!”, I yelled.
We grabbed and shoved and pulled, until we were both out of breath.
Anton felt the eyes of forest creatures on him, yet he knew the wizened voice had come from above. He stared at the lonely Moon hovering in the sky.
“Why am I here?”, Anton asked aloud.
“For the same reason that always brings you here,” said a deer that had moved beside him. “You have a lot on your mind.”
As he turned, he was transported to the Mediterranean beach depicted in a postcard his daughter had sent. Anton wanted to visit, but project delays would keep him tethered home until the end of the year. Besides, his wife was recalled to Budapest for work, and he wouldn’t go without her. The house seemed so quiet lately.
He pasted a YouTube link. Minutes later, Francis typed his response.
yo. that’s messed up.
Pierre sent a link to a video depicting protesters singing followed by riot police pounding on their shields and seizing seated protesters. Francis kicked his desk.
complete BS.
wait. did you see this?
Francis sent another link, this one depicting people smashing storefront windows and cheering as a police car burned. Pierre responded minutes later.
wtf?! maybe protesters deserved it
They continued for an hour, watching videos and getting angrier. Alyssa walked into Pierre’s room.
“G20 videos?”, she asked.
“Yeah,” he snapped. “Aren’t you pissed?”
“Appalled.”
“And?”
“If you want to stay angry, I’ll send you more links. If you want to discuss what we can do, come find me.”
Heidi sped down the nearly deserted street on her bicycle. The ominous security fence, a few blocks away, still seemed imposing. She spotted the newly installed CCTV cameras and shuddered. A police officer motioned for her to stop. He said they needed to do a security check. As one officer searched her backpack, another asked, “Where are you going and why?”
“I have a right to be here,” Heidi replied.
Elsewhere, two people with loose, black clothing and with concealed faces rushed at a storefront window and hurled paving stones. Some protesters rebuked them loudly, a few tried to restrain them, while others cheered them on or laughed. Shui moved in close with his camera when another person in black garb pushed him back and yelled, “Go away! No video, no pictures!”
Shui approached again and shouted back, “I have a right to be here!”
He rifled through the rack. Some of the items were plain. Others were hideous. None came close to what he was searching for.
He left the store and continued along. It was a hunch that brought him to the mall, the mall that triggered a memory, and yet another hunch that brought him from store, to store, to rack, to store.
His hunch now told him it would be this next store or none at all. He meandered around the racks and displays, astonished at how much fashion changes. Eventually he came to a standstill, marvelling at the sales associates’ timely disappearances.
A flash of colour caught his eye. He picked up the garment. The style wasn’t quite right. And of course, it didn’t have that smell–her smell. But the colour was an exact match. He held the sweater and smiled.
