SUMMER IN THE CITY
“Urban_dad!” “Urban_dad!” Unimpressionable_child one, and two, wail, as they stumble through the excessively large doorway bringing the ‘lounge’ into a room of strikingly similar portion, and character.
The Unimpressionable_children, appearing to have saved the bulk of their energy for the emphatic entry performance, vomit half a kilo of (cement) sand, three filler words, and an impractical quantity of inconsumable leisure items onto the divine parquetry – of European_Oak, as it were.
Collective murmurs of “Sssssa” vehemently echo through the joists below, whilst distant sounds of cushions in an empty cafeteria, seep above.
The tantrumatic production by the Unimpressionable_children appeared to have had the desired effect on the, inserted epithet, lurking below; however, Urban_dad, who perhaps earlier mistook a vitamin C for a zany, sat still, and cross legged, mesmerized by his glowing lap.
Subsequent to prior though, and after a slight delay in reaction, Urban_dad’s militant brow – as if the only communicative feature available for receptionist duties at the time – stands at attention to greet the Unimpressionable_children.
“How was your day at the beach kids?” he… enquires? “Or, perhaps is working on a robot impersonation for a forthcoming audition” the writer implants.
Most unimpressed at this response, indeed, Unimpressionable_child one, and two, remain silent; and instead, by reverting to an act of poignant posing they’d developed whilst attending the highly esteemed school of youth, they exhibit a range of deplorably unorthodox physical shapes, together.
Now slowly retreating to its place of comfort – esoterically content with its intrepid venture to a disparate sense of reality, Urban_dad’s brow reunites with the primary focus, the ‘clever metaphor for thought’ and of course, the digital contraption he so lovingly nursed.
“Oh, how wonderful” he mutters – to who, or what though… let’s waste time speculating.
Suddenly, yet simultaneously, our minds re-focus as the non-existent puppeteer’s who weren’t perched on the exposed roofing beams release their grip on the jouncing strings.
Unimpressionable_child one, and two, droop forward.
Forlorn, subdued, choked by (motor) exhausted dizziness and a strange sense of hormonal defeat, the Unimpressionable_children… exchange clothing.
“What absurdities will be on display at the beach tomorrow they, I, he, or any other fucking pronoun, ponders.”
