Samantha Redstreake Geary’s Picture Choice: 2
Oh, how I hate summer.
Summer is the harbinger of doom. The scorching heat brings birds with their incessant chirping, squirrels with their clawing chatter, dogs with their relentless barking, and my personal favorite, kids with their obnoxious playing.
I look around the park and survey the situation. There are, roughly, two dozen kids in various shapes and sizes unloading various types of torment.
This doesn’t bode well for me.
“You’re looking stressed, Elmer. It’s a beautiful day, why don’t you just relax and enjoy the fresh air.”
That would be Oakley, my neighbor who looks well rested because he doesn’t have any kids busting his bubble of serenity.
“I don’t know why they bother to come outside. Half of ‘em just end up talking on their tiny phones or texting their tiny friends.” I groan, scanning the sea of blue lit screens.
Although, I have to admit, I’ve grown fond of these recent advances in technology. Without their entertaining gadgets, I’d be in even worse shape.
“I can remember a time when you looked forward to playing with the kids,” Oakley says, stretching his long limbs towards the cacophony of wood-splitting shrieks and shrills.
“I’ve lost my enthusiasm to old age,” I reply, cringing at the two rather suspicious looking boys invading my personal space.
“Oh, come on, they’re not that bad. At least you have someone to play with.”
Here we go.
“First it was the birdhouse, and then the ‘No Treehuggers’ sign, followed by, ‘Daddy can we hang a tire swing?’, but not just ONE swing, no, that wasn’t enough hard labor--I had to wrangle with TWO!” I point out. “The more I branched out, the more they demanded! Last week they asked about building a treehouse!” I bark, my anxiety mounting.
“Calm down, Elmer, you’re gonna burst a vein!” Oakley warns, watching warily as one of the larger boys climbs into the tormenting tire swing.
The boy kicks the swing back and forth, its chains ripping deeper, the burning steel unyielding.
“I can’t take it anymore, Oakley!” I yelp, shaking my stinging limb, knocking the interloper loose into a satisfying tangle of tire and terror.
Oh, how I hate summer.
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