Toasted Writing

This is my first foray into a writing exercise where you start with a prompt and go with it. Here goes nothing...

Kenny wasn't exactly the sharpest crayon in the box. But standing on the playground, he shone with a cerulean spirt that drew your attention immediately. Whether it was squatting down to look at a dragonfly or bringing his teacher a blade of grass or the face-splitting grin as he flew higher and higher on the swing, Kenny knew how to live life to the fullest. Other children arranged themselves in a sort of pecking order of popular and unpopular; Kenny was outside it completely. Some kids, the worst kind of kids, called him dumbo or retard, but he really didn't pay them any mind. He didn't really understand that they were jealous, or craving attention. What he did know was that they were hurting, and he'd just treat them nicer.

But most of the kids stuck up for Kenny. He was both mascot and precious secret. Kenny could make you laugh, no matter how sad you were. He never lied to you. He gave his all in every game, and even though he'd stumble, the other boys gave him a grudging respect. He would come up and hug the girls and they'd giggle. He didn't find playing house silly. He loved building things with blocks, and always wanted them HIGHER and HIGHER. He had a wonderful sense of colour. His drawings were full of strange purple people and animals of all kinds, and never seemed to make sense to anyone but Kenny, but they were beautiful and alive on the page.

On the day that Kenny died, a grey chill crept over the playground, and the teachers moved about like hushed shadows. It was the kind of autumn morning when the leaves had turned from fiery red and orange to a dull brown, and the relentless rain and wind muddied everything, draining anything vibrant of all colour .