Jimmy
Every neighbourhood has one. They live alone and smell funny and have an overabundance of eccentricities. People cross the road to avoid them for fear that they might rear up and attack. No-one visits them so they exist in their own little make believe world and pretend that inanimate objects such as the plastic toy solder they rescued from under a bush or the dusty porcelain dog that has stood guard on the window sill for longer than they can remember are their friends. They have conversations with weeds growing along the sides of buildings and sometimes they take the weeds home. Perhaps they are building a nest. Where are their family? Where are their friends? They must have had some at some time. Surely. I live next door to one such individual. His name is Jimmy. Local kids kick their football off his window in an attempt to awaken the monster they think hides behind his eyes. I've seen the monster and I know that if they succeed they will surely regret it. He's a powder keg just waiting to explode. The years pass and the fuse gets shorter. All it needs is the right kind of spark. Just a tiny spark.
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