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The Incredible Running Man It’s the little things. There’s no way of knowing if it’s drug damage flashback. It’s not like the tree dripping in its all encompassing emerald glow, leaching every ray of light from the traffic signal before turning into some Dante like wicked red ogre reaching forth on the change. The change of mind. Is it mine to change? Does everyone flash from time and place at the drop of a smell, a crash of colour. A mind blinks and where am I. They call me Skeeta. Small, rushing around, hyperactive. Rushing down the steep drive, straight into sticky suburban bitumen. Pell mell, down the hill past the shops too early to fear the gathering older kids barreling straight to the pre-fab world of picture freedom. In uniform school. School uniform, I’m sure that the colonial attitude had some redeeming qualities As I leap headfirst six years into another school yard just in time to have my cap ripped from my head and launched on an educational journey to the roof of red