It would never be said of his son – Micah, “A chip off the old block.” A middle-aged man of pale complexion and reddish brown hair – these and his glasses were the only traits that could be claimed as ever being shared between the men. His son’s exterior was a contradiction. One could easily make out his hefty midsection, still within the socially accepted picture of “average,” but gaining. His choice in the latest alternative band t-shirts attempted a distraction to the mismatched area in contrast to his spindly legs and scrawny neck. Lanky but graceful – his straight, wiry hair sat atop his globe as a wig might.
It was clearly his own hair; its roots visibly clawed into his head nearly a full inch behind where his forehead should have ended. It seemed to follow a set of standing orders as it cascaded back and then, in…
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interruptingcow 