Rolling

Jack didn't remember how it began. But he remembered how it ended all too well.

A grass stain from his forehead to his chin. A green line dividing his face in two. And his friends laughing at him. Again.

How had it happened? Who's idea was it to roll down the hill anyway? Why had he not rolled but slid? On his face. He would probably never know. But he knew his friends would never let him forget about it.

He sat down against the old tree, spat out some grass and lit a cigarette.

It began to rain.