The despotic Florida sun was almost as cruel a welcome as Roy’s gambit:
“Why are you so cold?”
With a neck craning towards the unlucky blades of grass that bore the stain of the 30 yard line (such that the small lump of his chin sat feebly upon pillowy tiers of fat), yet with dispassionate eyes cast up, tucked just under the awning of a brow
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This brings back very specific memories for me, being the "new kid" at school in Florida, the lone clarinet player shoved into an open slot at the end of the flute section because I wasn't around when the charts were drawn up. Because of that, I actually ended up better friends with the flute section than with the clarinet section, and I did always enjoy hearing the commentary after competitions where the judges seemed very confused that a single clarinet would end up on the other side of the field from the rest. This really resonated with me.
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I loved the descriptive richness of this piece, from all the cruel ways in which Marco feels lesser and inferior at the beginning (and details like, the army of white-helmeted green soldiers sprouting in an unmoving parade at his feet.), to the ending, where he has found a place to belong and has been made to feel welcome. That's a triumphant conclusion. :)
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For some reason when I first started reading I pictured Marco and Roy as being older. Maybe it was the name choices, or the “pillowy fat”? Anyway, well done!
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