Parkour

He stood on the campus cafe's second floor balcony. The metal railing stood about three feet high which made it about thirteen feet to the ground, a little more actually. The balcony hung over the downward slope of a hill. A few feet to the right was a ground level wall with a metal railing topping it. The top of it was about seven feet to the ground. If he jumped to it his fall to the ground would be easier.

Once down the hill, around the parking attendant hut, he could jump across the tunnel entrance and catch the light fixture. From there he could swing up to the modern art sculpture and then all the way to the roof. It was only a medium grade and shingled, maybe seventy five feet at that end, so it shouldn't be a hard trip. There was a lawn on the other side of the art building with another art installation. This one was a series of poles and crossbars meant to mirror the mountains in the distance. Tall enough to bridge the height from wall to ground, the perfect way back to the ground.

Across the lawn was the engineering building. There were some pipes on that side of the building that he was relatively sure he could use to get to the balconies. The building was a series of expansions that led to a stair step of heights. The close corner was on the low end of it. Balcony hopping would get him to the other side where the loading docks were.  He could roll down the windshield and hood of one of the trucks to the ground once more.

After crossing the main drag through campus he could probably climb the northwest corner of the education building. There were two or three large metal grids attached to the wall there, the metal outlining eight two foot squares arranged in large rectangles. From those he should be able to get onto the metal walkway covers and across to Mansfield tower. Then up a couple more floors on the coping and he could squeeze into his room through the window.

By following this route he could avoid his ex who just walked into the cafe behind him, and his douche bag RA who she was now dating.

He took a deep breath and pulled his hood over his head. He drew gloves from his hoodie pocket and pulled them on.  Taking a few steps back, he ran and launched himself from the railing towards the wall.

Street Corner She

     She stood before them on the street corner.  Her thin frame draped over with a grey t-shirt and belted on jeans as much holes as fabric. She appeared clean though.  She wielded a guitar before her, a shield.  Her hands caressed the strings teasing music out, a ward against the evil in the passing hearts.  Her guitar case sat open before her. At once a receptacle for charity and a repellent of the 'decent' folk.  Her auburn hair was done in a braid that was pulled forward over her left shoulder.  It reached her belt.

     She stood, an unpredictable feature of that corner.  Each day she arrived at a different time, her stay just as unpredictable.  Even those 'decent' folk that passed the corner missed her sometimes. Truly.  She stood in the rain beneath the awning of the bagel shop, or the pizza place the other way from the corner.  Otherwise she was right there where Fifth and Washington met, always  the northeast corner.
She stood there seeing everything and nothing.

     One day someone tried to swipe some of the money under the guise of placing a bill into her case.  She slammed it shut on the fellows hand with her foot.  When he pulled his empty had out and hurried off, she packed up and left.  She was back the next day.  Another time she didn't even register the couture lady who dropped a hundred one dollar bills into the case. One day a reporter, a new guy, tried to make eye contact, to get an interview.  He stood transfixed for a moment looking into her green grey eyes.  He broke the gaze with a shudder and hurried away pulling his trench tighter around him.  Later, in bed, he told his girlfriend what he saw there.  He explained that at first her eyes were like any one else's, reflective.  After a moment though, the surface seemed to break and he sunk into them.  The city around them melted and he was in  the music.  He was insistent on that point.  It carried him somewhere, somewhere alien.  He considered himself a wordsmith, but he couldn't describe what he saw, and it was that that had scared him.  His girlfriend consoled him.  His publisher wouldn't run the story. She was there the next day when he passed.

     She shared and bared her songs to the world from that corner. Reporters came now and again broadcasting a song or two along with a short story.  Some stories were positive, others weren't.  She seemed unfazed by them all.  The cops tried to remove her, she went silently with her stuff.  She was always back though.  After a time they left her alone.