Lead Pipes Last Longer

All along the lake Irma skimmed rocks while chewing on blades of grass. The stones hit water and skipped through small circles before sinking in the brown, cloudy pillows. Occasionally, one would hit a lump in the surface and the collision would spark.

The dying stars of last night left the sky dotted. Embers smoldered on the landscape, releasing the faint scent of sulfur and peppermint oil.

Irma chewed thoughtfully on grass before scraping the sweet meaty white under her teeth and flicking the blade into the pond. She examined a rock methodically, and pressed its flat surface against her cheek. Then she angled it in her fingers and threw it to the water. She bit her lip and tasted salt.

Children howled in the distance.

Irma dragged her fingers up past her neck and through her hair, tossing her mane over her left shoulder. She picked up her hood, her gloves, and her lead pipe. When she first started, she used a wood bat, but she found that lead pipes last longer.

She began her dissent into town. Already, she could see a crowd forming in the distance and felt a stone in her throat. They were clustered in front of a remarkably fat oak tree whose trunk was tinged maroon. A man was pressed to it, his arms barely wrapping around the bark on the trunk, his feet unsteady on the roots.

Irma pulled on her hood and tasted grass. As she approached, the crowd parted. Even the children were silent.

She clutched her pipe, and swung it against his head, turning away before she could see it make contact with his face, mash against the great oak, and hang limp. She could hear the wind rush through the leaves as she turned around and walked slowly back to the lake.