Literature
Rupert the Runaway
With his mother squeezing firmly on his hand as if he might be snatched away at any moment, Rupert puffed up his freckled cheeks in frustration. He knew he was small, very small, but he wasn’t a baby. At eleven, he was convinced that he could handle himself just fine. Keen to signal his irritation, he huffed like a horse - lips as loose as a trombone player honking along to the janky jazzy piano tunes tinkling through the lazy leather-seat clad cafe acoustics. “Don’t make silly noises, Roo-Roo.” His mother scolded from above, momentarily averting her gaze from the chalkboard menu advertising various milky espresso treats. “It’s rude.” “Can you let go?” the boy demanded, tugging tiredly against her grip. He looked askance at the other customers, a motley mix of dour businessmen and haggard hungover students, all too aware of their disapproving gazes. His mother gave a hesitant sigh, finally going to release him. “All right. But no running around, mister!” she stipulated “This is a