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 in-consumable 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 appears 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 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… remain positive about life.
“What absurdities will be on display at the beach tomorrow they, I, he, or any other fucking pronoun, ponders.”