The barista shook his head. That hedge couldn’t have moved closer overnight. Could it?

Noticing he was alone this morning caused a funny urge to enter his mind. He would leap through the figures.

Standing on the sidewalk, just outside a square of soft grass, he dug his heels into the cement.

His body moved as his mind solidified a clear vision of how this Olympic level feat of athleticism would play out.

Three bounds, flatten the body while airborne, straighten the legs, lock the knees, spread arms out into a “T” and sail straight through. Clean. Magnificent.

He lifted off after the third stride, closing his eyes he steered his body into the green portal.

No longer was he man.

Now, he was flying pancake.



He was born into this place of warm serenity, molded by it.

Too warm.

Syrup now. Covering his body.

‘Help me!’ his mind screams.

They cut into him now. Darkness.

‘Pretty sweet jump though, right?’

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

Mondays Finish the Story – July 6th, 2015


July 8th, 2015

Posted In: Mondays Finish the Story, Short Stories

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