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Stretching again

Here's a minor rewrite of a descriptive exercise. Thank you, Stacey.

He just as easily smiles as pouts when he doesn’t get his own way. Cai is a speedy ghost—his pale form and blond hair streak past you jumping, running, or clambering on his way to some activity be it riding his bike, practicing his fishing casts, or throwing rocks. The freckles smeared across his nose and under his grey eyes lead you to think he’s all summer’s child, yet he was born early in the morn of Christmas Eve. The clouds do roll in when he is frustrated or when he commiserates in empathy with your pain or misery. Then, like the blink of a firefly, as if the painful incident never happened, he’s off to growl with his dinosaurs or storm his castle.
Like most boys he’s full of contrasts: his appetite balances swinging from glutton to a faster nearly everyday. Tears drop easily, too easily at times, but a few moments later the emotion disappears like a stone flung into a lake. He doesn’t like the sight (nor even the mention) of blood, but cartoon violence doesn’t faze him. The world is apprehended through touch and the pitch of his little boy’s voice in his questions. He hasn’t mastered jokes yet, but he’s improving, especially with knock-knocks. I know the boy Cai, I wonder what the man will be like.


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