Freaky Flying

Without meaning to, he turned on to that street. His blind wandering had brought him back to the exact block he promised to avoid forever.

The street, serene and picturesque, glints of tree filtered sunlight dancing on the sidewalk. The street on which he committed frightful atrocities.

To be a freak is so often to be misunderstood. Claude was crouching in the shadows behind a barrel of olive oil when a small family of tourists walked by. He quickly rubbed the lucky golden skull he kept in his pockets and leapt into the street before the family could pass.

The family, so stunned by this strange looking madman leaping out at them, stopped in their tracks. Typically this is when tourists would run away, giving our freak the satisfaction of a good fright, but today was different. “Do you believe in the savior our lord?” they asked.

He hesitated, then stuttered. “I’m—I’m a lapsed Catholic.” The family inched closer. “Jesus is love,” said the mother. There was an awkward pause. Then they pressed a pamphlet into his hands. Turning it over, he saw the title: “Jesus Loves All—Even Street Performers.”