Chrome Slope

I rolled out of the cloud-soft fleece slipper and stretched my arms wide in the crisp morning light. Resting against the heel of a heavy leather winter boot was a long, polished stainless steel shoehorn. Its arched metal scoop looked exactly like a micro-stunt ramp. Tucking my silver microphone securely into my waistband to free my hands, I scaled the grooved handle straight to the top crest. Bracing my boots along the slick steel, I sank low into my hips, locked my core, and kicked off. Shhhk-snap! I rocketed down the curved slope, catching air off the flared lip and landing a razor-sharp pivot freeze dead-center on the woven rug. Sunday rehearsals don't need a stadium.