by Christine Stoddard

Created on: April 05, 2009

"A Destitute Reflection"

Connor scuttled through the crowds of people waiting in line for the film festival as the sun beat too hard overhead. The phony film buffs wore red laminated passes swinging from cheap lanyards. Connor hated that blinding color but, even more so, he hated all the smiling men and women standing outside the cinema. They seemed too happy for people about to cram themselves into a dark room for twelve hours straight with nothing to eat but over-priced, over-salted, over-buttered popcorn.

"Idiots," Connor muttered, "Most of them have on glasses just to look educated. Even people with 20/20 vision have them on." He spat on the sidewalk, hoping one of the ladies in tacky heels would step in his glob of mucus. Connor relished the thought of ruining someone's ugly shoesespecially the ugly shoes of someone lifeless enough to enjoy sitting before a screen for a half a day. Maybe then the lady would remove her shoes and curl up barefoot on the theatre seat, getting her sole sweat all over the cushion. The next person who sat there would never, ever suspect that his professorial tweed pants were about to meet layers of toe jam. This ignorance pleased Connor.

Connor eventually squeezed out of the crowd, like a single louse dropping from a recently treated head of hair. He dragged his feet along the sidewalk, mostly staring at his sneakers and the gum smeared across the concrete. The gum came in all colors but lung pink and crap brown dominated. Several yards after Connor had escaped the "insipid twits," he bent down to pick up a greasy penny. He rubbed it between his fingers and sighed at its filth. Couldn't even the smallest thing shine anymore?

Connor dropped the penny into one of his sagging pockets and continued walking. The clanking of cars and whirring of voices grew fainter the longer he trudged forward. But as the noises outside of his ears faded, the noises inside of them amplified. Something within his ears seemed to flutter, like a trapped moth. Connor swatted at his left ear and then his right, almost as if he were throwing punches at whatever insect had invaded them.

"Stop it!" he grumbled. "Stop it! Go away!"

But the fluttering persisted.

"What's the matter, boy?" a scraggly voice came from behind Connor. Connor whipped around and stared at a lump of a man displaying rags like a sad Christmas tree. The man's beard rested on top of his potbelly the same way a cat snuggles up against its owner sitting before the fireplace. But this cat was gray

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