“Disgraceful.” Arms folded across his chest, Crenshaw tucked his chin down and shook his head. “Went to these courts all the time in my teens. Not a decade later, gangs have started marking their territory here.”
“Those don’t like gang symbols,” Ursula replied, pointing at the pavement. “It’s text. Probably neighborhood kids leaving messages to each other.”
“They should send texts, instead of defacing public property.”
“Public? You’re treating these courts like a personal playground, a memorial to your youth. Things change, Cren, and it’d serve you better to demolish the fence you’ve built around your fear of aging.”
Been a while since I’ve participated in Friday Fictioneers. Feels good to be writing 100-word stories again.