'Kids These Days' by Finnian Burnett

Walter adjusts his boater hat, glaring at the young people in body paint. In his day, pride meant something. Class, dignity, standing up against oppression.

Someone skates by wearing nothing but a loincloth and glitter.

Walter adjusts his blazer and straightens his bowtie, a frown on his wrinkled face. The kid on blades swings around, stopping in front of Walter.

Male, female. Walter can’t tell these days.

“Hi Grandpa,” they say, not unkindly.

“In my day,” Walter says, tapping his cane on the ground. “Pride meant fighting for what’s right. Pride was a riot, young…” He pauses, still glaring. “Young person. Pride wasn’t gliding around in loincloths and make up.”

The kid touches Walter’s shoulder. “Your fight gave us freedom to do this.” Their voice is gentle as are their fingers on Walter’s jacket. “Thank you,” they say before gliding off.

Walter stares after them for a moment, a smile spreading across his face.