Flakes

Flakes They said that he was a flake. You know, strange in some way that they could not grasp that did not fit into the dictates of their ethnic ghetto upbringing. And so he rebelled. Not against them, not against the ghetto ghosts, but against the pressure to conform to their ghetto-ness. She was also a flake. You know the type, strangely happy about being alive. Entranced by the movements of a butterfly, raising her arms and copying the butterfly’s motions. Her hair would just not obey the rules of religious righteousness. Nor would her flirting eyes. They were flakes, and as such, knew that no two flakes are alike. They kinda liked that, cherished the flakiness of the other. It seemed that they did not march to any drummer, just meandered to a music only they could hear. It was the rhythm of an unknown heartbeat, the “whoosh” of a passionate pulse, the warmth of life breathing. They are older now. They are still “Flakes”. He holds her butterfly hand and they mimic the movements of the wings knowing that they, like the butterfly, will soon be returning to a transformative cocoon. John G. Lawless 8/3/2014 Sorry Andrea couldn't keep it short.