Summer Afternoon

The top of his head and his eyes were the only parts I could see. White-blond hair paled against the rusty brown of the castle under the immense pine tree. He had a dangerous weapon by his side, I was sure, but mine was far more deadly. I carried a staff slightly shorter than me; the length was smooth and shiny from months of use. My fingers had left small indentations in the wood over time. His was longer and rougher- a little harder to swing and throw in the heat of battle. He moved- some branches fell off the fort. I stood and lifted my staff to step over the barrier. His eyes narrowed, and our sticks met with a bone-jarring thud. Back and forth- wood hitting wood- narrowly missing noses and fingers. Our concentration was intense: our footwork precise. It was a dance to the death on a pine needle carpet.

We both stopped.

"Aw, man." He moaned.

We surveyed the wreckage. I kicked at the remains with the toe of my pink sandal.

"It's ruined now. Let's go play something else."

"No more house," He wrinkled his nose, "your salad didn't taste so good last time."

"Cars, then?"

"Yea. In the mulch pile."