The Fugitive Kid.

[larkin]

The Fugitive Kid.

by Larkin

I couldn't tell that he was cute until I got up close and looked into his face. He was so intense.
Maybe it was the rough-cut hair destruction or the silver ring in his nose, I don't know for sure but I was under a spell.

His fierce exterior covered up a guarded sensitivity. I saw it in his eyes.
Taller than me by a foot, he wore ravaged clothes printed with images and symbols of anarchy.
He defiantly spat on the ground.

He said to me, "Little dude, you think you are okay but you are fucked up like everyone else."

He looked like he was sorry about what he had just said.

I said, "I know."

He didn't expect someone my age to give him an answer like that.

Robin swayed on his balance and then changed his position to secure stability by propping one foot up on a peddle and the other on the ground.

"Little dude, they are all assholes and they are lying to you about everything."

I didn't really understand what he was telling me but somehow I felt it was true.
His laugh was lonely and isolated. When I heard it I had no idea why but wanted to share what little I had with him. No one had ever affected me this way.

He twisted his mouth and said, "Ya know, I hate adults."

He paused for a moment and then said, "I can't help it. I hate all teachers, priests, psychologists and mothers. They are the jailers of the mind. The punishers of anyone who strays from their fake fucked up world."

I said, "They're not all that way."

He grudgingly said, "Well mostly."

I had never heard anything like that before. I didn't even understand it but it lit a fire inside of me. I wanted to believe him. He was cocky and contentious but I could see underneath, it was just a show of defiance.

From that moment on I knew I wanted to be with Robin and no one was going to stop me.
He didn't look like everyone else and he didn't act like anyone I had ever known.

He said, "Little dude, you don't wanna hang with me because I am seriously fucked up."

I said so he could hear me, "I don't care."

He nodded and said, "Okay, it's your funeral."

He looked at me and said, "Hop on." He meant the back of his bike.

When I did, like finding a lost puzzle piece, my whole world suddenly became complete. I put my arms around his waist and we flew down the hill. I had let myself be kidnapped, ...willingly.
Resting my head against his back I felt like I never wanted to let go. If his whole thing was an act, it worked because I was totally hooked.

I said his name silently to myself, "Robin."

Where do fugitive kids go?

We rode past strip malls, supermarkets, laundromats and rows of run down houses. From above, we were two boys on one bike in a sea of cars, trucks and lights. We passed under highway overpasses and through parking lots and then, finally down neighborhood streets. Robin's house was worn and unpainted. The front lawn was un-mowed and there was sign that said, "For Sale By Owner"

Inside the house it was dark and musty. We were very quiet. There was a man asleep on a couch in front of the TV. I saw the red and blue mandalas of Fox TV swirling perfectly.

We climbed creaking stairs.

Robin's room was small and stacked with cardboard storage boxes. His bed was in an enclosed corner. It was small, covered with old blankets and mismatched pillows. Unlike the rest of the house, this little bed was his home.

We fell down on it together as if at the end of a long journey. Robin's agreeable scent hung in the air. I didn't mind, in fact, liked it because it made me feel close to him. We had barely known each other more than an hour and he had become my closest friend. I needed to be physically close like when I was behind him on the bike. My intimacy with him was happening so naturally, that I wondered how anything could be wrong with it.

We talked in hushed tones.

He said, "Little Dude, you are awesome, I just met you and I feel so relaxed like we are best buds."

He continued, "Why would you want to hang with someone as fucked up as me? I mean like, everything I do is wrong or fucked up and I am always in trouble with someone or something."

I had no idea except that I wanted to be with him. I could not resist cuddling closer. He put his arm around me and I rested my head on his breast. I could hear his heart beating. He moved to get more comfortable and then moved again.

He whispered to me, "I can't help it, Little Dude, I gotta jerk off. It'll only take a minute, I promise."

Maybe I was too young because I had no idea what he was talking about until he opened his pants and pulled it out. I didn't move, I just lay and watched. I had never connected sex games with intimacy until this moment.

Robin said, "I always do this alone, it's so different when you have someone with you."

I didn't do a thing except cuddle up close to him. Barely knowing each other we formed an everlasting bond. His moans and cries made me fall so in love with him.

Afterwards he was embarrassed and apologetic.

I moved even closer and did something I had never done before. I kissed him. It disarmed him and he became exposed and vulnerable.

I didn't want to but had to go home.

[ChrisR]

This sounds like an interesting opening to a wild ride! I like it and look forward to seeing where it takes us.

Since you ask, I'll say that to me some of the speaker's comments seem out of sequence. Just as a thought, I'd probably lump features together differently, such as:

* *
I can't really figure out what first drew me to him. Maybe it was the rough-cut hair or the silver ring in his nose. Or perhaps it was just a sense of foreboding and an underlying intensity.

Taller than me by a foot, he wore ravaged clothes printed with images and symbols of anarchy. He defiantly spat on the ground.

But as I warily drew closer and examined his face I could see it in his glistening brown eyes: that fierce intensity on the exterior covered up a guarded sensitivity inside. I froze in place. I don't know how or why, but I was under his spell.
* *

Opinions here are just those of a whacked out gent who's spent a long time writing technical documents, so I hope your mileage varies!! :)

[larkin]

But as I warily drew closer and examined his face I could see it in his glistening brown eyes: that fierce intensity on the exterior covered up a guarded sensitivity inside. I froze in place. I don't know how or why, but I was under his spell.

ChrisR, thank you.

Of course I appreciate constructive criticism and I am sure that was your intention but glistening eyes and fierce intensity would indicate courage and a readiness to fight.

This is not the case with the bike riding, Robin. He is depressed and defeated and he has just met someone who understands and may offer him the solace he needs.

One of the great qualities of love is that people can heal each other.

[ChrisR]

My misinterpretation then. Sorry about that.

I took the combination of descriptors -- intense, fierce exterior, nose ring, anarchism, height, spitting, language -- to be the markings of a bully, but one who the narrator sort of sees through. Perhaps now I have a better grasp of things. Thanks. [beaming out]

[Cole Parker]

Spare writing of that sort demands interpretation from the reader. Not a bit surprising different people would have different impressions from what was there.

C

[larkin]

Spare writing of that sort demands interpretation from the reader. Not a bit surprising different people would have different impressions from what was there.

C

Thank you Cole...

You are right. If a single word isn't chosen carefully or it is somehow, wrong, the meaning or thought is lost or incomplete.

Spare writing of that sort could be apparent to those it is written for. A piece about 2 boys meeting isn't going to get much traction to person who has nothing in common with a similar situation. No amount of additional writing is going to help.

This was written 7 years ago and one of a handful that got into print.

I resist generic writing styles and I often make mistakes. I would hope that is what this forum is for. A place to try it out.

[larkin]

My misinterpretation then. Sorry about that.

I took the combination of descriptors -- intense, fierce exterior, nose ring, anarchism, height, spitting, language -- to be the markings of a bully, but one who the narrator sort of sees through. Perhaps now I have a better grasp of things. Thanks. [beaming out]

ChrisR,

Don't be silly, no need to apologize. Cole is probably right.