A moment in the life of a confused child whose imagination clouds his perception of reality.
Brewster's eyes leapt from within his deep, vermilion cloak. "Jaime, you'll do it," he demanded. A timorous group of children encircled the two. Brewster moved amongst them, his motion a silent rejoinder, encompassing all of them. "You'll do it."
Jaime shifted nervously, hands fumbling his swollen and silken coat, his eyes feverous.
Jaime moved backward but the faces descended with his. His hands plucked the fringes of his coat. The children giggled:
"Jiggle the belly, Jaime!"
A scattering of mulch and a woman's insistent voice stilled their play. "Brewster, come with me." Privately, she continued, "Brewster, you mustn't pick on Jaime."
Brewster was still, his eyes irreverent. "Madame, it is play."
"How do you make fun of his weight, Brewster? You are much heavier." Another, taller and younger woman essayed.
"You mustn't pick on poor Jaime."
That is not how it is, Brewster thought furiously. Others are with me; I am best. My clothing is a good green. "Very well, Madams," replied Brewster, his voice thick and haughty. Brewster turned and looked at the school house. Brown and old, the faded paint peeling, it was nevertheless quite formidable. There was a weakness, Brewster knew; and great purpose swelled within his head.
"Friends," Brewster said, his eyes exulting. "I've a plan." The children edged closer, tentative. "The school will fall!" There was hushed surprise and reverent susurrations. Wide, brimming eyes pleaded for his vision. "I've a spike and a hammer. You see, we'll hammer at the cement supports. It'll break, and fall. The school will fall!"
"The school will fall!" The children rejoined.
"Come on, I'll show you. It'll work."
A voice, faint under such portents, called recess's end. The children gathered into their classroom and slipped slowly from their eagerness.
Brewster's body was strewn listlessly...
Poems & Short Stories essays:
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