The Boy Walked Home

The boy walked home, happy. A newfound possession crackled in his back denim pocket as he paraded along his way, scattering pebbles hither and thither as he went, engaged in the mindless joys of smacking sweeping branches and releasing flying karate kicks into the air that all young boys take immense pleasure from. The single keychain on his dull red Cars backpack rattled as his heavy footsteps jostled him up and down. Past the ice cream store he ran, through the post office, and to the gate that separated his home from all that was other. He huffed and puffed, and then with one magnificent jump, cleared the fence (almost). He brought his legs up but not over and crashed into the summit of the chain with his stomach, the momentum carrying his legs over but not his front and he fell to the ground.
The air wooshed out of him but he had not come this far to lose. The boy shrugged his backpack off and somersaulted with grace that would shame an Olympic gymnast, stood, and put his arms out in a V like he had seen on TV the year before. The corners of his mouth worked their way up into a wild grin as he stood from a sweeping bow to the audience of bushes and shrubs and critters that lay inside and to the river behind. The boy picked up his backpack, not bothering to rub the dirt stains off the faded plastic, and continued his journey home.