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The boards. Each paired to its owner, a microcosm of personality. Two are hand-me-downs. One from a friend who moved away to the “other” coast, a parting gift of sorts—one last goodbye. The other, from an older brother. Last anyone heard, he’s doing well in basic training.
Four shaggy haired lingerers, 15 years old, gather in the lunchroom at school. Shoulders hunched. Eyes darting. Whispers hissing, nearly indecipherable amidst the constant chatter of high school drama. A teacher approaches, bodies scatter.
No worries, they know where to be.
Bells ring, lockers knock and bang a 4/4 beat. Canvas and rubber sneakers squeak-skid their way from hallway to sidewalk to home.
Grab the boards.
The boards. Each paired to its owner, a microcosm of personality. Two are hand-me-downs. One from a friend who moved away to the “other” coast, a parting gift of sorts—one last goodbye. The other, from an older brother. Last anyone heard, he’s doing well in basic training. Soon enough he’ll ship off to a new base, a new home, far away from the old one. Another is brand-spanking new, begging for its first taste of freedom from factory floors and stockroom shelves. The third was pieced together from an old deck—a few spare nuts and bolts from dad’s garage plus four mismatching polyurethane wheels reaped from abandoned decks and random parks.
The corner of Clay St. and 2nd Ave. 6:00. Don’t be late.
The quiet suburban world they called home is slowly being dismantled by heavy machines—tearing down to build back up again. Which is fine with them. They were in it for the asphalt.
Clickety clack. Clickety clack. Small cacophony, tiny orchestra. The pounding war drums of four adolescent hearts, sixteen wheels, and uncontainable laughter. Resonance. Syncopation. A rolling ballet.
Clickety clack. Clickety clack. Small cacophony, tiny orchestra. The pounding war drums of four adolescent hearts, sixteen wheels, and uncontainable laughter. Resonance. Syncopation. A rolling ballet.
There. On the other side of that fence. A quick collective shift of gaze. A divergence from the path. Unspoken solidarity.
He brought a camera. Found it in the attic searching for a box of grandad’s old clothes (polyester suit pants, cut below the knee made for ideal skate shorts, it turns out). The camera, tucked in a random box of grandma’s knickknacks. He remembered how she liked that photographs denied time. Forever moments she called them. An invitation to step back—enter another place—to remember.
He threaded the film like he’d seen her do more than once. Fumbled. Resorted to YouTube. Film, it turns out, requires a sensitive touch. Patience. He liked that.
Camera tucked with care into the gaping maw of his tattered old pack. Ready for fight or flight, whichever comes first. He skates ahead. Searching for the right angle, the perfect light. There, by the fence.
He crouches in shadow—a predator in wait.
The fence itself is leaning left like Uncle Jack after two too many. Doesn’t seem too worried, or threatening. If anything, it’s a little sad.
The sign, however, suggests something else. Some sort of warning, whispered, whimpered even. It hangs crooked on the fence, like a tired security guard—a facade of authority, unsure how it all came to this. Is it a warning or an invitation? Did they ever even see it in the first place?
Rolling melody, rolling rhythm. They scale the fence like it’s a choreographed dance. Unison. The snap of a shutter—forever moment. Snaps one more as friends look back and wave him onward to join them.
He scales the fence, camera in hand and stride-rolls to meet his friends. Snapping, winding, snapping again. It’s almost like he’s done this before.
Four shaggy haired lingerers, 15 years old, gather in the lunchroom at school. Shoulders hunched. Eyes darting. Whispers hissing, nearly indecipherable amidst the constant chatter of high school drama. A teacher approaches, bodies scatter.
No worries, they know where to be.
Bells ring, lockers knock and bang a 4/4 beat. Canvas and rubber sneakers squeak-skid their way from hallway to sidewalk to home.
Grab the boards.
The boards. Each paired to its owner, a microcosm of personality. Two are hand-me-downs. One from a friend who moved away to the “other” coast, a parting gift of sorts—one last goodbye. The other, from an older brother. Last anyone heard, he’s doing well in basic training. Soon enough he’ll ship off to a new base, a new home, far away from the old one. Another is brand-spanking new, begging for its first taste of freedom from factory floors and stockroom shelves. The third was pieced together from an old deck—a few spare nuts and bolts from dad’s garage plus four mismatching polyurethane wheels reaped from abandoned decks and random parks.
The corner of Clay St. and 2nd Ave. 6:00. Don’t be late.
The quiet suburban world they called home is slowly being dismantled by heavy machines—tearing down to build back up again. Which is fine with them. They were in it for the asphalt.
Clickety clack. Clickety clack. Small cacophony, tiny orchestra. The pounding war drums of four adolescent hearts, sixteen wheels, and uncontainable laughter. Resonance. Syncopation. A rolling ballet.
Clickety clack. Clickety clack. Small cacophony, tiny orchestra. The pounding war drums of four adolescent hearts, sixteen wheels, and uncontainable laughter. Resonance. Syncopation. A rolling ballet.
There. On the other side of that fence. A quick collective shift of gaze. A divergence from the path. Unspoken solidarity.
He brought a camera. Found it in the attic searching for a box of grandad’s old clothes (polyester suit pants, cut below the knee made for ideal skate shorts, it turns out). The camera, tucked in a random box of grandma’s knickknacks. He remembered how she liked that photographs denied time. Forever moments she called them. An invitation to step back—enter another place—to remember.
He threaded the film like he’d seen her do more than once. Fumbled. Resorted to Youtube. Film, it turns out, requires a sensitive touch. Patience. He liked that.
Camera tucked with care into the gaping maw of his tattered old pack. Ready for fight or flight, whichever comes first. He skates ahead. Searching for the right angle, the perfect light. There, by the fence.
He crouches in shadow—a predator in wait.
The fence itself is leaning left like Uncle Jack after two too many. Doesn’t seem too worried, or threatening. If anything, it’s a little sad.
The sign, however, suggests something else. Some sort of warning, whispered, whimpered even. It hangs crooked on the fence, like a tired security guard—a facade of authority, unsure how it all came to this. Is it a warning or an invitation? Did they ever even see it in the first place?
Rolling melody, rolling rhythm. They scale the fence like it’s a choreographed dance. Unison. The snap of a shutter—forever moment. Snaps one more as friends look back and wave him onward to join them.
He scales the fence, camera in hand and stride-rolls to meet his friends. Snapping, winding, snapping again. It’s almost like he’s done this before.
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