Corduroy

“Corduroy reminds me of denim.” James says boredly, hands in his pockets as he glances at a huge, distasteful sign with uncomfortably-big letters in block text “CORDUROY” above our heads.

“Wh-what?!” I exclaim. “They have nothing in common!” “Well, they’re just an uglier fabric to use to make pants. So, like ugly denim.” “Ugly denim?” “Yes. If I’m ever of any power or importance in this world, I shall rename corduroy ‘Ugly Denim’ Or maybe something shorter like ‘Ugdem’.” “Ugdem? That’s even worse than corduroy!” “But corduroy is such a pleasant word…” He stares blankly at the rack of unnaturally brightly colored clothes. “The fabric cannot live up to the name.” “You’re such a freak…” I punch him lightly in the shoulder. James has always been a weird guy. He’s just…different, y’know? I dunno how ‘ta explain it other than just…”Odd”. As a kid he was fascinated with roadkill, fruit, ink, milk and anything you could pop. I remember being…what, six? And asking him why he liked those things. He replied;

“They all leave marks and have the most interesting smells.”
Sometimes I still catch him crushing a fruit in his big, bricky hands, or lazily crouching by a crushed cat, tugging lightly on some barely attached limb until the tendon snaps off, and the flesh falls back onto itself with a unsettling squish.

Ivy Sullivan, 10th grade

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