Dear Reader,
I saw a silhouette upon the brick wall just beyond my eyes. A thick fog surrounded me, and along with the setting sun, it made it difficult to see anything. Yet, I still could discern the black silhouette along the red brick wall. I suppose it was formed from the single streetlamp, which hung low over the street. Its luminescent glow was so inviting, and after staring at it for too long, a trance befell on me. The lone silhouette swayed gently from side to side, left to right. Behind it, the sun fell low below the horizon and a dark purple fell over the land. It is difficult now to remember what exactly the wall's purpose was. Perhaps it was a shield to protect the city from a foreign harm, or maybe, it was a shield to protect a foreign land from the dismal city. Either way, all of my thoughts were incomprehensible as I began to walk closer to the light and the silhouette it created. I crossed a cracking sidewalk as a car rolled along the road, honking at me when we nearly collided. I remember looking back with my eyes, then beginning to glaze over, and seeing the look of an unbridled terror appear in the gaze of the driver. He shook calamitously, and I thought I could almost see beads of sweat dripping down his cheeks. Then, I looked away, far beyond, to the place where the streetlamp hung low against the brick wall. The sound of the car faded as I stepped. He might have had a heart attack at the wheel, or perhaps my ears were shrouded with an inescapable cloud of silence, for after only walking a couple short steps away from the vehicle, I could no longer hear any sound at all. The dark figure was swaying violently then, and the rocking movement was like a siren call, and I, a sailor. I continued to venture through the uncharted waters of a land I once knew as familiar. But, the foggy haze surrounded me, clouding all that I thought I knew: except the silhouette. It remained tall and strong against the background of fading red bricks. At that point, still yards from the light, I heard the figure call out to me. It was a soft sound, yet it was mighty against the wind. It was so soft, it almost resembled the hissing of a viper. "Come hither, " It commanded, letting the ending of its final word linger in the air. Although it was unfamiliar, I had never known a more profound responsibility than that of following the figure's every order. To disobey would be a horrible crime. At that point, I no longer remembered a world where my every moment was not filled with the light of the incandescent glow of the streetlamp hanging low against the dreary, brick wall, and neither did I know a world where that silhouette was not the instructor of my every move. My feet were grating against the dark pavement, as the sky grew black. A single tree stood beside me, a willow, its branches thrashing childishly in the wind. As I walked, my arms were planted at my sides, and my head was immovable while it stared ahead at the silhouette. "Come hither." At once, the sound struck me again! It beckoned at me, forcing me to push myself faster toward the brick wall ahead of me. I nearly started floating at that point: my gray laced shoes were moving as if they had a soul of their own. I think I was carrying a briefcase before that wall struck my eyes, but by the time I relinquished myself to the silhouette, it was long gone. The fog was shrouding my view, but I knew that beyond there was a light and a black figure where I would find my long-sought escape. After only a brief moment, my feet found their way back to my supervision, and it felt as though they were landing gracefully back onto the ground: I was finally at my destination. The bricks were tired and fading, and brazen designs of graffiti were sprayed along the wall. As I stood there a realization crashed into me like a sudden wave. There was not a soul there but my own. Whatever had been swaying in the spot where I was then standing, was not there. I began to question then if there had ever been a figure swaying there. Perhaps it was just a tree branch. Even though I had reached the wall, I was still completely entranced by some force of nature. And so, my feet carried me closer to the wall, and I turned my body until my back was facing it. Then, I stared ahead, blankly. Not a thought passed through my mind, and never would one ever pass through there again. I was completely meek, a mouse in nature. I looked beyond and saw a tree branch swaying low above the road. In my submissive state, I followed its move and began to sway as well. A gentle hiss escaped my lips too, imitating the sound of spring leaves whistling in the wind. While under the order of the tree, a gentleman approached, obscured by the bleak fog. He stood tall, with a briefcase in one hand, while his other arm was firm and empty. He stared right at me, and his eyes became filled with wonder and bewilderment. At that moment I became lonely, for I had felt as though I had been swaying there for years, and so I began to call to him. "Come hither," I hissed. When he came too close, my body flung itself back against the wall, breaking my connection to that foggy world. I realized that maybe there had been a man standing there before me, but he had disappeared in order for me to take his spot: it was a deadly cycle. And, at once, I was gone, dissipating through the air like smoke, or like a dreary fog. Sincerely, The Fading Shadow of a Man I miss cartoon New York.
I miss foggy sewer smoke dissipating through animation. I miss the morning rush and my flush of anticipation. I miss ragged basketball nets and shots that never miss. I miss the Man in the Yellow Hat and the figment of our inquisitiveness. I miss the Macy's Day Parade, drawn out on storyboards, I miss the never ending yellow lines stretching beyond the roads. I miss the holding hands of grinning strangers. I miss the fairy tale of love thy neighbor. I miss the fake rain that formed fake puddles - children could stomp on without real looming troubles. I miss the cafeteria messes and the humiliating notes from home. I miss the grid-grate fence at recess and living life without a phone. I miss the eagerly early mornings - the smell of satisfaction in the air: I miss the mending pancakes that stitched all of my tears. I miss the warm blankets, and the familiar arms coddling. I miss the morning dew, the scent of it still surrounds me. I miss the crystal screen, I could look deep into and wish. I miss the jovial feeling of having something to miss. I miss the Big Apple without any spots, I miss the Statue of Liberty without all the rot. I miss cartoon New York. I stood and stared
at a man sitting on an old chair stationed by a desk - hammering away at his Soul. Watching with Jewels in my eyes I asked him: "Do you enjoy it?" Evasively, he muttered: "It's necessary." Wisteria was growing over his toes, his eyes were cobblestone. I walked closer to the Banal tower of a man, inquisitive, determined. "Do your eyes ever glimmer?" I asked, he looked back- Glazed and Confused. The beating of a hammer against a Soul was a dangerous sound, like a siren to a sailor. Nearer, I trekked. Against the backdrop of a stone wall his figure was almost indiscernible - his life was one Without Worth but he sat, stubborn. A cigarette materialized between his fingers and he took a drag: "Would you like to join?" his soul was broken, bloodless, beaten in two, but when I shook my head his eyes glistened with a new wisdom: "I am inevitable." Tears formed in my eyes, and I turned on my heels and trotted away down the road I had came, yet the darkness loomed on either side, until it shrouded out my eyes: and my ears were filled with the familiar sound of a Fragile Soul breaking, but that time it was my own. Dear Reader,
It's been a while. When I arrived at the train stop, I was taken aback by how small it all seems now. The children running around my feet were so faultless and naive, it's hard to believe that used to be you and me. My feet padded carefully around them, with my luggage rolling recklessly behind. I was an entire two steps down from the platform when I heard the rumbling of the train leaving, which turned the minuscule station into a quaking behemoth. I was still shaking when the sun struck my eyes out on the boulevard. I hadn’t a destination in mind, as the trip was on rather an impulse, but my legs carried themselves along the trail we used to wander. I climbed up the swerving sidewalk past the usual suburban homes, my head nearly hitting the low-hanging branch of a sycamore. As I was swinging my head below it, I actually thought I caught a glimpse of an older version of you, but by the time my vision became clear, I realized it was just the gray silhouette of an average man carrying a burgundy briefcase, presumably, I thought, on his way to work. My head sunk in slight disappointment, but, looking back, I suppose it would have been impossible to run into you. I traveled along oak-strewn streets, passing the occasional jogging housewife or ruefully drunken husband. There were park benches along a few of the roads, and I felt a few keen-eyed old men glaring at me through their newspapers: most likely due to the hefty stack of baggage wheeling behind me. At first, I thought their concentration was rather comical, but when their gazes followed me for a few moments too long, I decided to scurry away quickly. I was out of breath by the time I discerned where I was. The colossal red brick building loomed large behind the silver grid gate fence, and the rhododendrons by the front doors were in full bloom. Although the sun radiated brightness across the flat concrete roof, the air around the school was tinged with a faint melancholy. I stopped myself to take the sight in, and whilst in the position, I looked down on my feet to see an empty canvas beneath me. I remembered when we were young, the sidewalks were shrouded for miles with vivid concrete creations, yet at that moment, the emptiness was an unbidden signal of the passage of time. However barren the streets were, the scent of sidewalk chalk still festered in my nostrils as I gazed upon our old stomping grounds. I met you there when I still wore my hair in tight pigtails, which my mom hurriedly made up every morning, and when you still wore overalls and a uniquely adolescent grin. The rusting swings squeaked underneath us every afternoon, but our bond remained unbroken. We used to lay with our heads tilted to the stars underneath the growing fir trees, yet now the once-young evergreens are scarred with ridges in their trunks marking inescapable time. One grew so large that I suppose it is impossible now to see the stars skating through the clear sky, and I wonder now where the children go to dream. The aura of pungent nostalgia shrouded me in a haze, and I stood staring at the old schoolhouse for the shortest hour of my life. My fingers gripped the grid-locked gate surrounding the lawn, and for just a moment, I had the faintest adolescent aspiration to climb over it, like the way we used to on lonely nights. However, my daydreams were as ephemeral as our love, for while reminiscing I caught a glimpse of a tinged memory: the school bus. I could almost hear you squealing at me from the window by your seat, while I hurried to the vehicle, trying to make it before you left. I missed the bus every week, but that time was the only one I remembered. Even more clearly, I can recall the moment later that afternoon when your mother called crying, attempting to tell me what had happened in between sobs. I woefully wept with her all night long, and even now, my eyes are still stained with tears, but my vision is ever-so clear. It was a running joke that the bus driver was an old drunk, and his depressive sighs from his front seat were a perfect target for our daily mockery. The ladies in town, especially your mother, Ms. Evangeline, always stone-headed and devout, would gossip in their circles about him and his flask. They never did talk about it again, or the possibility that they could have saved their children in the back seat if they had ever the capacity to aid those whose ways did not align with their own, and the other ladies in the church circle took it as a signal to migrate out of town forever. The ruin of bus number nineteen of Bellview Elementary School was not entirely his fault. That day, the kids had been particularly driven by their dreams: they wanted to see the cliffside where one could look over the sycamore trees. It was a tall tale that an unsolved murder had taken place there, but as the years passed by, it became the place where desolate souls went to dream. There was something in the way the sycamores swayed and the tall lavender bloomed, but most importantly, it was far enough away from the town so that the sky was always clear and the stars were always present, sometimes even while there was still the faintest light of day. The driver was feeling rather jovial at that moment, and he succumbed to the childrens’ wishes. Only a few yards from the cliffside, a hurried car came crashing down the road, and the bus did not have time to swerve away. When the police arrived, they remarked that the collision had forced the bus onto the plateau, and the lone survivor of the crash humorlessly chuckled about how that was their intended destination. Although the town tried to remain hopeful, I could not find any solace. Once I escaped the prison of the grid-locked school gates, I never returned. I moved to a bustling city where at night, the stars are shrouded with smoke, gloom, doubt, and despair, and wishing stars are as rare as dreams, but my wishing for them is forever a thumbs-down on the Dodo’s mode. I always wondered to myself if I could ever forget you on the days when my banal work no longer served as a distraction from your face. My sudden return to this town was my answer, clear as day. I know that there is still an old, wrecked school bus out on Bellview Lane. The rubber tires are ridden with grime and dust, and the jovial yellow paint looks tarnished and faded. From the cracked windows, grow vines, which fall down its sides and wrap around the rotten exterior. Tallgrass sways in the distance, creating a slight cadence in the air, while on the sandy road where the bus lays, tumbleweeds rumble and roll, like its tires once did. In the night, the glow of its headlights has created a new moth agora, while hyenas cackle at the stern of its rear. From the rural sky, one can see the stars skating through the night, just as we could from beneath the evergreens. I will forever live hoping that you departed with your head tilted upwards, your arms stretched at your side, your glazed eyes always gazing at the stars flooding through the night. Sincerely, A Believer Crows on the Picket Fence
Ms. Evangeline slept with a pale crucifix fixed above her bedpost and a silver dagger cushioned inbetween her lush pillow and its silk case. She was a wilted woman: her knees sagged low and her cheeks creased deeply. Every night, she ventured to her second floor bedroom at exactly 8 PM. If one were to disturb her past this time, she would track them down by memorizing their face from her paned window, and in due time, one would receive a hand-written letter of contempt urging them to never return - filled with vague threats and old English words. Although she gained a slight jubilance from repelling the trespassers, her house hardly received any visitors, due to her pronounced maliciousness. Her home was located on a street of the most beautiful mundanity, for each house seemingly was the same: verdant, manicured lawns and white picket fences and blue shingled roofs. The homes themselves were all formed of brick, which looked to have been built decades previously due to their evident dullness. Each of the pointed-hat clones had two cars in the driveways that lay beside their bricks, except for Ms. Evangeline - she was too ragged and wrinkled to drive. During her sojourn on the Earth, she married thrice, each time to careless sons of rich fathers, yet none of them ever left her any money. And, although she was penniless, she adored the posh life: being considered “frugal” was quite the fear of hers. Her only income came from the occasional cleaning of a neighbor’s house or selling of an heirloom. The neighborhood would have taken pity on her, if it were not for her adamance on never accepting their help. Even though they often brought her charity, she claimed their money was tinged. This was not an outlandish claim. The town was notorious for their sins: especially the whiskey-scented mayor. His loud mouth was the reason the rest of the church ladies migrated out of town, but Ms. Evangeline was neither one for change, nor one for giving up. Instead, she converted her modest home into a white lair where his faithless words could never reach her. This lifestyle provided her with a quaint security, yet there was one problem that arose during the late autumn and early winter: the crows. Every year, they flew in from out of town and sat squarely on her white picket fence without an urge to leave until the spring. She was forced to stare at them from the windows in her dining, living, and bed rooms. They were a speckle of bleak imperfection shedding fallen feathers on her lawn in - what she seemed to think - a veiled attempt at mockery. And, naturally, their witch-like caws haunted her through the spring, the summer, and worst of all, her slumber. The population of her town was meek and the children were bushy-tailed. It was a neat village: the streets of similar homes all spewed out of the agrestic town center on top of a flourishing hill. The lively oaks and swaying maples and spiny evergreens loomed over the concrete streets atop of the hill. There were a few shops, tailors, and rowhomes, but the predominant landmark was the clocktower. Moss grew down its red brick sides, and the clock’s luster had not faded after over a century of life. And, it still chimed too, at the top of every hour. There were racquet courts strewn throughout the town, for it was the only competition allowed. The sturdy walls, which shielded the courts from the roads, were plastered with andesite, while the juvenile faces beyond their crevices were plastered with a unique contempt. All of the children in town were raised to not become their parents. Evidently, this created a sense of looming failure in their minds, as drunkenness and depression were as inevitable to them as death. Moreover, they were forbidden from recreation as well as any form of competition, as these acts had the possibility of further corruption, except for racquet sports: badminton and tennis and squash. At first, no competition, including racquet sports, was permitted, but the town realized all too quickly that without rivalry, children were inescapably prone to other acts in order to relieve their rage. These included such misdemeanors as slashing tires and shoplifting, to such acts as arson and alleged murder. Evidently, the mayor made a decision - the only important one he ever made in his life - to allow what was seen as the most leisurely of games, the racquet sports. He affirmed boisterously to the town that “these activities pose no threats to the minds of the younger generation.” Even though he was correct at first, rather quickly, a pattern appeared. Without any other applicable recreation and contention, the adolescents began unloading all of their stresses and worries and fears into their racquet playing, creating unusual feuds. Feet stamped the courts with such vigor that the whole world seemed to shake, and smoke protruded out of the players’ nostrils and ears as their eyebrows furrowed. They all had dark, creeping eyes too, watching the game at play with such intent, the world around them vanished. This ire was seemingly harmless, until the losers started becoming vengeful and the winners started becoming conceited. That’s when the fire in their blood boiled out onto the streets, with arson rates rising seventy-five percent in the five year period after the Racquet Act was passed. Ms. Evangeline knew their blasphemy did not end there, for her keen eye realized, from studying the morning paper, that the missing person cases and the teen DUI’s took a sharp increase too, even if the rest of the town tried to ignore it. Her world became more enclosed during this period: she had bars added to her windows and she survived for entire weeks off of packaged food. She would never risk coming into contact with such sin. One day, however, a group of boys, who smelled like hot contempt, took their grievances too far. The wind in the air was becoming more crisp and the autumnal leaves had already fallen. All of the neighbors wore down coats and padded pants, and they hardly left their homes. And of course, for Ms. Evangeline, it was an even more treacherous time of year, for the crows had made their annual return. They invaded her yard and her picket fence and every morning, when they caught her eye, she heaved a great sigh. On the night the Boys ravaged the town, the crows were still sitting squarely on her fence, shrouded in the night. Their caws were almost a beckoning call for the Boys, as their rampage only began when the town had fallen asleep, and the only sound was the crows. The town center was a jungle of shrubbery and trees, and it sat only two short blocks from Ms. Evangeline’s home. When the Boys arrived with pints of gasoline in their hands and matches deep in their pockets, their intent was clear. The old clock tower would only chime once more, to mark the eleventh hour of the night, before it all came crashing down. Along with it came the burning of the lush greenery and the dissolution of the shop and tavern awnings. The flames reflected in the Boys’ mad eyes, like mirrors into their destructive minds. After some time of watching the turmoil, one of the boys stammered in a fit of regret. The rest laughed emptily, and they turned their gazes upon him. The docile boy had no chance to feel remorse, as before he knew it, he was hurtling toward the flames to be their next victim. As the moon continued to carry through the sky with negligence, the flames carried themselves across the town. It was quarter to midnight by the time the bright blighting roused Ms. Evangeline. It took her a few moments to collect her composure before she traversed to her paned window. It was at that moment that her white picket fence burnt to a crisp. She watched it turn to gray, to black, and finally to nothing at all, with a blank expression in her eyes. The smoke began to travel to her roof and through her windows, as the scent of smoke covered her home. Looking at her scarred yard, she laughed with the only clean air left. She bellowed and giggled with all of her old might, watching what had become of her picket fence and the crows who had occupied it. When she did at last perish, her final words escaped her lips with a unique hope and jubilance for Ms. Evangeline. She uttered, grinning madly, "They'll never be back", and neither she thought, would the corruption they brought. Dear Reader,
I reach for you, grasping at air: silently curl my fingers back to my safe side, our bright eyes drenched in this sun-bathed blue boulevard - your taut heels grate against rocky pavement: entrenched in doubt. my starry-eyes dance along your venusian edges beneath the sun: shall I watch you from up too close or from afar? those hair brambles - verdant spring weeds dangling down your shining back are tangled up: too kindred to my misery. eyes darting the newspaper page - here I will sit, do not look back: I await, awe- stricken by all of your pieces. pick up yourself from below the ivy dungeons where lost souls go to hide away - I discern a touch of feline fear and goosebumps sitting in your throat - begone me not! I know my chivalrous purpose is but to watch color drain from your face. pick up your pace - I will still be grinning madly behind my leaf, maintaining my watch and my ground. cross the bleak road over yonder! pass my dreary sun-soaked eyes! beneath these shiny wide-eyed eye lids you will live free forever in my twisted mind. Sincerely, Your Stalker weary:
I walk, feet stamping the mud - shoe soles damp with civility: now, deep in the soil, trapped in oak - the way I'll always remember her. a tumbleweed: she rolled through time, me, the desert soil - barren without her bristles. falsities: escaping pursed lips behind me: "she is in a (better) place", so then where am I? Dear Reader,
There was only one day in my trivial life worth remembering. I can still recall the scent of flourishing wisteria from outside my bedroom window where I awoke that morning. It carried through my room, shrouding all of my senses and all of my furnishings, like an ashy cloud of smoke. Consequently, as soon as I gained consciousness, I had to trek to the window and close it, since although I did love the smell, it was becoming overwhelming. And, at once, the cloud of floral-scented smoke evanesced, and I was able to begin my day. I always started my days with a soak in the clawfoot tub that sat in my bathroom. My legs were too long for the bath, and my feet would dangle from the end of it, over the old tile floor. When I was finished, I dressed in my usual attire - khaki dress pants, shiny, black shoes, and of course, my cobalt button-up shirt with tiny, black polka dots. I had a rather small and slender figure, so my eccentric attire allowed me to stand out in public. Even though I looked electrifying, all of my days were dull. My mornings and afternoons were spent selling carpet door-to-door, which had been my job for the past eight years. Moreover, I spent my nights driving my blue truck around town, rolls of carpet in the back left unsold, until I wore myself out enough to fall asleep as soon as I crawled into my bed. Now, this day began like any other, trying to sell rolls of carpet to exasperated housewives and their irritated husbands, until I decided to travel out of picket-fence territory to the more rural side of town. It was raining, I remember, when I arrived at my first house: a small dark-oak cottage. I knocked on the door, and after a few moments, a startled man came to the door. He was burly and tough-looking, with a large, brown beard adorning his chin. When he saw me, he seemed nervous, and I supposed he didn’t get many visitors. However, after rambling on with my usual routine, I noticed he was sweating profusely, and his cheeks were red as roses. “Is everything alright?” I asked him, with genuine concern. He stood still for a couple of seconds before he responded by tugging my arm and pulling me into his abode. In my eight years of carpet selling, nobody had ever invited me inside their home. When I saw the interior of the home, I immediately noticed why he was skittish. Sitting on his dusty, pine coffee table was a homemade bomb with red and white wires sticking out all over the place. After examining it, I realized he was gone. But, then I heard loud footsteps coming from the other side of the house. When he finally approached me, he was holding a massive, metal ax: I thought he was going to kill me! He must have been scared I would reveal his secret contraption, but he was entirely unaware that I, too, made bombs. Door-to-door carpet salesmen only get paid ashes compared to what someone can make selling homemade bombs. I had never told anyone my own secret, but when he held his ax over my head, I immediately spewed out every detail of my illicit night job. Then, he smirked, and I realized that I wouldn’t be selling carpets for the rest of the day. “Well, as you can see here,” he gestured his hands to the bomb, “it’s a bit rough around the edges. I had to start making it under short notice, and I need it for a job in a few hours. Would you be able to help me finish it?” I nodded enthusiastically. Finally, after years of the dullest profession, I had been awarded a day of utter fulfillment. So, we worked on the bomb for a couple of hours: fixing wires, programming timers, and placing it all into a neat cover. It looked truly remarkable. While we worked, he filled me in on the purpose of the bomb. He told me that there was a man who lived in the suburbs that owed him some money. I was a little startled when he told me where the man lived since he lived right down the street from me. But, he assured me that he had tested numerous prototypes of the bomb, and he was positive my house wasn’t in its radius. When we finished, he asked me if I would like to help him deploy the bomb. “Do you think I spent all of this time working on this bomb to not see the destruction it’s going to cause?” I laughed. I walked out of the house with him, and we boarded his car. I kept our prized possession in my lap, while he drove down the rough, country road. There were large fir trees on both sides of the road, which were swaying violently. The rain from the morning had only become worse by the time we left his cottage. Stray branches and twigs lined the dirt we drove over. Soon enough, the dirt road turned into a paved road, and we were nearing the home of our victim. Although we wanted to place it quickly, we decided to wait until the storm subsided to deploy the bomb. “Are you sure you want to do this?” the burly man asked me. “Why are you asking me? It was your idea,” I responded, staring out the window. “Exactly, so I’m prepared if I get caught. If you stay with me you’ll be incriminated too, if they figure out who did it.” “I have nothing to lose,” I retorted, curtly. After we talked, I gazed out of the front car window. We were near enough to my home that I could see the wisteria in my front yard. The brutal storm had turned the plant to shreds, and there were only a few purple flowers delicately swaying in the wind. I watched them tumble with the wind, always staying rooted in the soil until the storm abated. The burly man nudged me out of my trance, and he told me it was time to begin our deployment. It only took ten minutes to find a spot where we could lodge the bomb. We found the perfect place in between the house’s foundation and its porch. I allowed him to place the bomb since he had worked on it longer than I did. After we positioned it, we returned to the car. “I set the timer to go off in four hours. He should be home eating dinner when it explodes. I can’t wait for him to learn his lesson.” the strong man enthused, as we drove back to his house. I simply nodded and smiled. When we returned to the cottage, I said goodbye to the man, and I thanked him for the joyous day. Then, I went back into my truck, and I drove back into town. Before I came home, I decided to sell some carpet until sunset. None of the irritated customers suspected what I had just done prior, which made the job more exciting than usual. At the end of the day, I went home, and I began to do the routine I had been doing for a decade. The remaining wisteria softly swayed outside, while I continued to fade back into mundanity. I almost forgot about the bomb I helped plant down the street from my home. Actually, I only remembered when I heard a deafening clamor, while the room shook calamitously. After regaining my composure, I trekked over to the kitchen window, and I saw the blazing inferno that had become of my neighbor’s home. I watched it burn into a pile of ashes for a few minutes until I grew drowsy and decided to head to bed. When I sunk into my bed, I noticed my window had swung open from the storm. I was too exhausted to rise up from my spot and close it, so I let the cold wind travel into the room. Within a couple of moments, the scent of smoke carried into the room and covered my senses and furnishings like the aroma of wisteria. As I sank into a deep slumber, it shrouded my nostrils and neck and my lungs, until I fell into the deepest sleep of all, under a blanket of ashy smoke. I may have taken my last breath that day, but those few smoky breaths bestowed me with more life than any I had ever taken before. Sincerely, A Free Man Dear Reader,
A casket sat under the hushed wind of winters' past. Snow fell carefully around the shiny oak object. There, from the shrouding wind, a girl walked up to the casket. At about one foot away from it, she stopped to observe. Engraved on the side were two initials, still clearly etched in the wood. The girl watched the casket with suspicion as if waiting for something to jump out at her. And in her ruminating moment, her past climbed out of the ground, and into her view. A moment of stopped time, from when she was nine. It was the week after her grandmother died, and she and her father were sitting side-by-side in a pew. A portrait of the old woman leaned back on an easel, sitting in the center of the room on a podium. When it was time to pray, the adolescent girl quietly leaned into her father, and whispered in his ear, she was a mean, haggard old lady anyway. With an air of offense, he said curtly, respect the dead. With that, the church slowly faded away, and she returned to the barren, white land where the casket lay in the wind. The snow around her clung to her clothing like a stain on a white dress. Desolation shrouded her in the midst of the lonely winter. Her eyes were blue as the June sky, and she wore a lace, white dress traveling down to her knees. Glancing down at the casket, she wondered who lay in there. But through her thought, she was taken to a new reality. One where her own body stood two feet away from her, but it was older and unfamiliar. Clearly, the woman couldn't see the adolescent version of herself wearing a white dress. They stood together in a bright penthouse, with large windows planted into the walls, where the woman stared. "Could this be the end?" the older woman whispered, facing the window. Her arms were drawn down to her sides, stiff and immovable. Her small hands were clenched into fists - red as a rose. The woman looked exactly the same as the girl in the white dress, yet the lace-covered girl was in awe of the woman's beauty. Both of their faces were plastered with pain, but the girl hadn't seen the worst. She knew not what was to come. The stiff left hand of the woman came up to her hair, and she brushed a blonde curl off of her forehead. Her eyes seemed to kill, while she spoke softly out of the window - as if anyone could hear - "Help me, for I am lost." She was not a damsel, and her apartment was not a tower. The only shackles tying her up were the pestering thoughts of her lost winter days. A beam of sunlight pushed through her window, and she was reminded of a particular lonesome night. "Wake up!" the shout came hurtling from her past. Her dad shook her awake on a dark December night. He held a suitcase in one hand, and his last shred of jubilance in the other. "Pack your belongings" He yelled in her ear. "Where is mom?" the voice of a familiar, small girl whimpered. "I told you to pack your belongings." He insisted as he began to grab objects from her shelves. She slowly pulled herself out of bed and she grabbed the suitcase from his outstretched hand. The little girl wore a white, lace dress as she grabbed items from around her room. She had seen her mother wearing the exact dress, and afterward, she insisted on wearing it every night to bed. A chilling winter breeze flowed through the room, and it hugged her tightly. After only a few moments, her dad ran to the doorway where he turned toward the girl. His eyes were bulging out of his head, and his feet were tapping vigorously on the floor. When she met his eyes, she realized his serious nature, and she picked up her pace. She grabbed everything she could fit in her small, black suitcase. She grabbed the participation trophy from her first spelling bee and she took the tiny picture book her mother used to read to her and she grabbed her journal from her desk and she took her favorite pen, which she used to write poetry. Swiftly, she moved to the doorway where her father still stood. Quietly, he took her hand and they hurried away - never to return. The fading sunlight beamed through the penthouse, and the woman stood perfectly still. However, her lips were beginning to quiver as she looked onward out of the window. The little girl in her memory realized the fate of her old home as she ran to the car with her father. The scent of smoke found her nose, and soon a red light carried into the sky: the house was on fire. "Where is mother?" She asked again. Her father only shook his head. She began to shout, to scream, to kick as to make her father return to the building to save her mother. But, he only put a finger to his lips and pushed the girl into his car. The little girl looked out of the backseat window, her teary eyes following the wreckage of her home. When the sight left her view, she leaned into her father. "We could have saved her," she whispered, sorrow filling her eyes. He looked back, and he shook his head. Returning to the present, the woman began to cry as the day turned quickly into the night. Her body began shaking with an unequivocal force, and her lips trembled as tears streamed down her face. She wanted to break out of the window and jump. She wanted to break free from the shackles of regret. As she pondered, the girl in the lace dress walked close to her and inspected her slowly. A revelation glowed within her as she whispered something in the woman's ear. And then, the apartment faded away back into the misty wintry scene, and the girl stood alone once more. With drooping eyes and a heavy head, she carried herself to the casket. Then, she opened the casket, and she looked carefully inside. Surprise cascaded over her face, as the emptiness inside became apparent: it was waiting for her. Without a shred of pride or respect, she laid herself to rest. The initials carved onto the side of it shone brightly in the cold, snowy mist - ME. In the woman’s mind, a casket lay, shrouded in the hushed wind of winters' past, filled with the body of a girl she longed to forget. The woman smiled fondly out of the window, as the memory of her childhood faded into obscurity. Mysterious words began to play in her head in a familiar adolescent voice. "The past cannot change, but you can grow." Now the girl in the lace dress was dead, the product of a lost time. Sincerely, A Ghost of the Past |
AuthorNick Sobolewski is a Sophomore at Jenkintown who is very passionate about acting and writing. Archives
February 2023
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