The boy ran, jumped, and successfully crossed the gap, and landed on a nearby roof. His bare feet continued to patter until he came to a stop. His forehead was damp and his palms were sticky. Standing tall, he glanced behind at the gap. Brady smiled, and brushed his bangs out of his eyes. He told the other kids that he was an orphan. He spent the day solo, running and target shooting with his slingshot. He pulled the slingshot out from the back pocket: handmade from a perfect Y of a dogwood branch. A small knot had fallen out and served to help anchor the rubber strap on that one tip. Brady fingered the smooth grain as he approached the edge. He had several smooth stones and one marble in his front pocket.
Across the next street was the little shoppe that served sandwiches and cakes. Brady squatted down under an overhang to watch the customers. He watched a man and woman who had cleared their plates and emptied the tall glasses. The woman pulled off one glove and shyly pressed a bare finger into the remains of sweet frosting her fork was unable to gather. Brady knew that hand. He had seen it do that a hundred times, and never once in front of a stranger. The man reached for his fedora and held it in his lap. They stood, said their goodbyes while shaking hands, and walked in opposite directions. Brady tailed the man by rooftop.
Brady climbed down and began stalking the man along the sidewalk. He curled into a tight crouch. Brady prepared to take aim using his best marble. Then he changed his mind and nearly returned the shot to his waistband.
The man noticed a loose lace. He bent down to tie his shoe. Suddenly, Brady saw the smooth felt of the underside of the hat brim. He touch the soft leather to his lips, thinking. He aimed and the marble snapped the brim an inch past the man’s ear, and the fedora jumped off his head into the street.
When he moved to pick up his hat, he noticed a blue and yellow swirl marble in a crack in the sidewalk. He turned it over once, looked up the empty street, and put it in his coat pocket.
The bell tower chimes sounded across the city, and Brady realized he needed to leave quickly. He raced. At the sink he wet his hands and dragged his hair back flat. Then he sat down with his lessons.
The door slammed a little too hard behind her as she shouted, “William Bradford O’Connor, your lessons best be done already.” Then she stopped. “Oh. You combed your hair.”
“Hi, Mom,” said Brady.
Writing Battle
Harvest Owl 2026 Microfiction Debrief
Official Word Count: 457
