“Hey! Hey, wake up!” My eyes widened as a huge shiver ran down my spine. I looked up to see my good friend, Adam. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been trying to wake you up for hours.”
“What’s the problem this time?” I asked. “Maggots coming out of people’s ears now?” He laughs, but the happiness doesn’t last for long as he gestures to the window. I look outside.
“154 have already fallen; Over 800 infected,” said Adam as I looked out of the window in complete horror. There were smashed cars and burning buildings everywhere, with random pools of vile, green liquid covering the ground. Worst of all, the infected people walked about, seemingly normal until you take a closer look at their faces. Their bodies looked normal, but their faces were shaped weirdly. They looked as if they were those screaming ghost faces you find at Halloween stores. As they stumbled around, I could hear the loud, deep glottal growls coming from their mouths, or whatever they had left of a mouth.
“Hey wait,” started Adam. “I know that guy!” he said, pointing to one of the infected people. This one was wearing a tattered dark blue button-up shirt with a black T-shirt under it that read “O.I.M.A.C.T.T.A.,” whatever that meant. He also had on some pants, if you could call it that. They were, at this point, so ripped apart they looked more like a piece of fabric with a string attached to it than it did a pair of pants.
“Really?” I asked. “Yeah, we called him Communist Jimmy because of his button-up shirt,” replied Adam with a sigh. “What a guy. Never knew what O.I.M.A.C.T.T.A. stood for though.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“Alright, well I’m going to go try and talk to him,” I said, as I walked towards the door. Adam quickly ran to the door, attempting to stop me, but it was too late. I stepped out onto the cold, lifeless soil of the outdoors, looking around me. Everything was dead. The trees sat there without leaves and with very few branches. There were no longer birds flying overhead. Nothing could survive the sickness. But I had to remember the real reason I was out here. I had to talk to Jimmy. I spot him, or what was left of him, bending down and seemingly digging for something. I walk over to him.
“Hey, are you Jimmy?” I ask, but I get no answer. “Hey?” I try again. This time he looks up for a second and grunts, but then looks back at the ground. This is hopeless, I thought to myself. But finally I decided I would stay around for a little while, so I sat down, and looked at Jimmy. His face seemed as if it was deteriorating because of the sickness, as it had little scars, indentations, and cuts everywhere. Honestly, I felt bad for him. But he was just as the others were. Brain-dead.
I turned around, looking back at the house, if you could call it that. It was more of a broken-down truck that has been there so long it felt like a permanent building. I could see Adam gesturing to me through the window, seeming to say something along the lines of “come back here.” But I wasn’t about to leave Jimmy just yet, but as I turned around, I saw the dead corpse of Jimmy lying down on the ground. I felt tears coming to my eyes, but I wasn’t going to cry over someone I didn’t even know. I decided that we should give him a proper burial, so I lifted up his body and carried him to the truck. We didn’t have a casket, so we just hid him under the truck, until we had time to bury him, as it was almost nightfall. As I step into the truck, I hear Adam’s voice.
“I think you just made a big mistake,” he said. I ignored him, closing the door behind me and walking into our “living room.” I sat down on one of the boxes we used as chairs.
“Hey, Adam, you up for a game of pinochle?” I asked, grabbing the special deck of pinochle cards off the shelf and opening the box.
“Sure,” said Adam as he walked over, sitting on another box that was on the opposite side of the table as me. As I dealt the cards, I asked Adam one simple question: “So what do you think O.I.M.A.C.T.T.A. stands for?”
“Maybe it means only I make apples contain tiny tic-tac arms?” Adam replied with a laugh. I laugh too, but our laughs are only to be responded with a bump from below the truck. Adam and I glare at each other but say nothing. I continue to deal the cards. As we begin sorting our hands, I think of another way to say O.I.M.A.C.T.T.A..
“Omelets in my appetizers can’t taste tasty anymore,” I tell Adam rather loudly, unable to stop laughing. Again, however, the laughter is short lived, as I hear another bump coming from under the truck but this time it shook a little bit.
“Did you feel that?” I asked, my heart racing. Adam nodded his head in response, but we continued to play cards. I look at my hand and see two aces of hearts and a 10 of hearts as well as many other cards of the same suit.
“I’ll bid 21,” I say. I look up at Adam to see if I can tell how he feels about his hand, but as I see the veins in his wrist, I think of another funny definition of O.I.M.A.C.T.T.A..
“Oxygen in my arteries can tear tissue apart,” I scream unable to control myself. Adam and I laugh for a while, until I hear someone knocking on the door.
“I’ll get it,” I say as I stand up and walk towards the door. “Hello?” I ask after I open the door. But to my horror, standing in the doorway is a figure resembling Jimmy. Everything about him is a shadow except for his shirt and eyes. I can see the red glow on his shirt, reading O.I.M.A.C.T.T.A.. He pushes me back into the truck, grabbing my throat and shoving me against the wall. This was it. I was to die here. As I stared into the pitch black eyes of Jimmy that reeked of darkness, I could see my own reflection in them, but not normal me. It was a hurting, bleeding, dying version of me. As I slowly ran out of air, squirming to try and escape from the grasp of this monster, Jimmy whispered in my ear. “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”
Mallow never expected to spend the rest of his life banished in some desolate land with bad food and their sworn enemies residing across a canyon, but that was life, he supposed. Sure, it sucked that the only thing close to sunlight were his shiny metal shackles, which were doing an excellent job rendering him a stupid, scrawny lizard with no magic and the lamest flight pattern ever. And that the constant shaking and earthquakes made getting a good night’s sleep more impossible than actually getting out of this stupid place. Plus, he and his fellow malefactors constantly had to worry about those humans that saw dragons, beasts with thousands of abilities that they couldn’t even begin understand, as delicious meals. But as long as he kept his head low and avoided the monsters from across the canyon, the meaner and bigger convicts who couldn’t deal with their feelings, scary human hunters, random rock slides, surprise earthquakes, and the crushing loneliness that engulfed him from his head to his tail to the tips of his wings, he should be fine. Perhaps he’ll even reach his 3000s.
However, his hopes of reaching a ripe middle age were soon to be dashed if that human’s foot was to step any bit closer. At last, his method of burying himself in the dirt was to finally fail, and he would be caught and roasted across an open fire and served with those little worms that somehow managed to thrive in this wasteland. But the foot didn’t move closer. In fact, it didn’t move at all. Mallow peered up at the strangely motionless human who could end his life in a second. The human was staring up at the ashy grey sky and seemed to be deep in thought. Seizing his chance, his body began slowly creeping away from the behemoth. A tiny flower of hope began springing up from the ashes of all his ambitions and dreams.
That flower was soon set on fire, stomped on repeatedly, churned into a mush, and shot into the sun where it burned into a crisp as Mallow jumped up and began freaking out. A stream of steaming liquid metal had spewed out of the human’s mouth, a silver spill in the darkness, and landed several meters around her, causing Mallow to panic and began scrambling around in a way akin to a weird dance.
The human was dry heaving now, body shaking and ready to collapse. Thankfully, she wasn’t aware of him. Throwing away stealth for speed, Mallow erratically lifted off and shambled through the air before beginning to fly away. A few seconds into his escape, his midsection was gripped by a hand and he was pulled face-to-face to the human.
He was stared at with an expression of mild shock. She was normal sized for a human and much larger than him. She looked horrible, all sick and malnourished like the some of his neighbors who refused to settle for a diet of bugs and plants. The human’s eyes were darting around manically, like she was in the middle of doing something horrible. Her hand was cold and shivering, the rags she wore barely keeping out the chill. He, in contrast, was warm. He could curl his body around her neck like a scarf, will she let him live if he did that? He was scrawny and thin, he probably wouldn’t be a fulfilling meal.
Her thumb reached down to the shackles around his talons, custom-made for him. The ones he spent ages trying to break, smashing them against rocks, trying to saw through them with bones, and biting at them with his broken teeth. They were snapped with a slight press. Does she remind her meals of what failures they were before eating them?
He was not plunged into her mouth, thankfully. The human didn’t seem to notice that she destroyed his greatest bane, her head was downwards and in deep contemplation, then her eyes were on him. They were desperate and scared and she was coughing as if her throat was burned. Which it definitely was, she just coughed up molten metal as if she was a dragon. Many of his fellow convicts were able to do that before they were shackled.
She was looking at him as if he was a tasty hunk of meat now. Her hands were gripped around his body. Wait, his bindings were off now, his power was returning and thrumming through himself, he could summon a portal! He reached into himself and summoned all his energy, all his restored magic, and endeavored at conjuring a portal that’ll take him back home.
It didn’t work. The only thing he conjured up were a few sparks and a cloud of disappointment. His magic wasn’t suppose to fail so miserably, even with years of disuse, perhaps his manacles clamped down on his powers a bit too well. If so, kudos to the designers, he’ll haunt them after his death.
Wait, there was still one more thing he could do. Taking a deep breath, he shifted into a human, with slicked back hair and a snazzy outfit, in a poof of smoke. He dropped onto the ground on both legs with his chest puffed out and head held high. Then he collapsed. The human just stared at him, lying in the dirt with his limbs askew and floundering. He was half-hoping she’d faint and he’d crawl or roll away and go home. But no, he was stuck at the mercy of a human who may-or-may not practice cannibalism, he didn’t know, he didn’t check the eating habits of humans.
“What? What are you? Who are you? Did you see...my mouth problem?” The human rasped out as she leaned over him. “Are you an agent of the leader? Will I be banished? What’s happening?” She seemed much younger as she choked out the last question.
“I, uh, I don’t know. What leader? I’m a dragon, I don’t know about your mouth issue. Will I be eaten? Do you have a way out of here?” Mallow coughed out the words, the language was foreign against his tongue.
“Will I be banished? I promise I’ll work harder.” The human was panicking, eyes diluted and breaths uneven.
“Banished? What banishment?”
“The...banishments to prevent the earth from shaking. Everyone who has committed treason or broke the rules or did other wrong things must be banished to the canyon...for the safety of all our families.” She explained as if he were a really stupid kid who should’ve known that already instead of a dragon/human that she just met.
“Earthquakes can’t be stopped by sacrifices, that makes no sense. Who told you that?” And to the canyon? Bordering the worst part of this world? Humans were weird.
“Don’t question the leader! He keeps us safe.” She was oddly defensive now, and when did she have that spear? And were those snares hanging from her belt?
“Uh, what are you doing with those?” He began shuffling away from the scary human.
“Hunting, a storage had a cave-in, definitely by that girl who was born too late, and we need food.” She gestured to an empty cage besides her.
“I know where you can find food, I know all their hiding places, I’ll show them if you take me with you.” Maybe the humans knew a way out of here, it was worth a shot. And his peers had no love for him, or each other. His wing still had a chunk missing from when he stumbled across some more pushy dragons. Well now, it was payback.
She nodded and held out her hand. He took it and helped himself back up. Mallow reverted back to dragon form and curled up around her neck, forked tongue pointing to a crevice where an aging dragon who had set Mallow’s food on fire for no reason resided. The human headed his advice and began walking towards the crevice with tense muscles. She was coughing. Mallow began praying to the king he no longer respected that she’d save the metal puking to after the hunt. And that he’d get out and she’d get her metal thing worked out and not get banished by that very stupid leader. But now, all they needed to do was to kill his very terrible neighbor. Hopefully, this would work out.
The year 2100:
2018 seemed so nice. The air was clear, kids could run around and swim in the ocean. But now everything's different. I wake up every morning and go to the edge of the city. The large transparent dome enclosing the city allows you to see into the now barren outside world. Some citizens want to change it, paint it to seem “friendlier.” They just want to cover it up so they can ignore how filthy the world has become. But I like the outside. I like to think of out there, imagine how it used to be. I like to picture running around in a green grass field and swimming in the once bright blue ocean. Everyday I think about how my grandparents’ generation could have saved our world and our home. I wish they did something about climate change so that I could see the rainforests, clear water and coral reefs. I wish the the arctic still existed and I wish that those hundreds of thousands of animals hadn't gone extinct. I wish someone had protected the Earth back then. If only their mindsets had changed so we could be free from this confinement.
The boy laughed and played in the summer sun. Dressed in shorts and a shirt, he also wore gloves. And in those gloves were hands, hands that didn’t look like human hands, but rather like talons with scales that were as black as the night sky. Every day, after school let out and kids went home to their families, the boy took to the shore. The shore with water that freezes even the fish. The barren, cold sand, lumpy and callous on the boy’s back. But it was the only place where he wouldn’t be judged, the only place where no one talked or called him the boy with the talon hands, that kid who everyone feared. He was the kid that no one came near. He was the kid that never raised his hand. He was the kid that sat alone at lunch, scared, like everyone else, of what he was.
Rumors had spread all through the town of the boy with the talon hands. That was his name, well, that was his name to the kids in P.S. 38. But his real name; that was a secret only the boy knew. Never holding a conversation long enough to tell his name. If you asked someone what he had for a face, no one would answer, not because no one ever saw him, but because his flaws were not on his face. All of that, it took place in 1932.
That boy, after everyone went home and he went to the shore, was never seen again. It was said he committed suicide; it was said he ran away; it was said he was killed. But no one knew for sure.
In every school there’s that kid. Someone different, someone who stands out for all the wrong reasons. Like the boy with the talon hands in P.S. 38.
There was a girl named Sarah though, the girl who has it all, her name to the people who don’t know her. Her perfect complexion, top grades, and indescribable laugh were what made Sarah Sarah. She was the kid who everyone aspired to be. She was the kid on top of her class. She was the kid eating her lunch as if a queen. And so, when everybody went home to families that love, Sarah didn’t. She did go home to a something, something that didn’t love. It wasn’t a family but a man, in it for the money. Sarah never talked about him, that abrasive drunk, that cruel creature, that greedy stealer. She never talked about him, but of a family she once had. One she claims she still does. She told stories of her family heading to the beach, having two homes, each more pristine than the other. How they loved her, how she was their little star. She was adored by all because of a lie she told herself and everyone. Until that time she couldn’t control.
That time when Ms. Applebee ran the screeching chalk across the powdered board. Slowly, as to be neat: February 13, 1972. Slamming sounds came from textbooks falling onto desks made Ms. Applebee scold the children. She never wanted to hear a peep unless she asked. Sarah smiled towards the teacher, but it wouldn’t last. The smile died out when she saw a stumbling, bottle-wielding, half-naked man heading down the hall. Heads turned; mouths dropped. Shards streaked the hardwood floor as the bottle contacted the ground. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Sarah’s right then were musty and stained by tears. That night Sarah wanted to die, never wanting to show her face again at school. Never wanting to be seen by her friends. Never wanting that man to foster her. But it was too late. She didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t control what he did, when he drank. She couldn’t control who raised her. That night Sarah cried, not to sleep, but to drown the pain. Throat burning, head light, hands clenched. The memory wouldn’t leave her head. Sarah was that kid, that kid who stands out for all the wrong reasons.
The next morning, Sarah went to see the person only the problem kids had to meet. And so, Sarah grabbed the metal doorknob, cold and rusty, turning it till she heard a creak. Her hand gently pushed the wooden door, swinging open to a room that smelled like the night sky.
A small sound climbed out of Sarah’s mouth, which only amounted to, “Hi.”
“Hello, what is your name?” the man questioned her.
“Sarah,” she said so quietly it was almost invisible. Her eyes gazed downwards at his nameplate. Turned over, nameless. “And yours––”
“Is not necessary to this conversation, Sarah.” The frail man stared at Sarah’s bloodshot eyes with tears welling up inside. “Why are you here?”
Sarah’s eyes darted around the room. First caught by the peeling walls, painted black like ravens’ claws. Then attaching to the man’s face. A face that showed no emotion, a face that was not memorable, a face that could disappear. “I thought the whole school heard.”
“Those rumors? The story comes muffled when it reaches my desk.”
“I’m the butt of all the jokes, the kid with no parents who had to lie for attention.”
“Why attention? I would think someone without parents would just fade to the background,” the man asked, calmly questioning a broken Sarah.
“Because,” Sarah said, shrugging off the question. The man, now inquisitive, slowly placed his hands on the armrests of his chair, sitting up. She stared at the man’s hands, now woven together atop the desk. Sarah noticed many things about the man’s office. How sunlight gleamed off the metal pen near his hands, how the room was like the summer sun, warm and inviting. How it still smelled like the night sky. Sarah, being top of her class, opened her mouth as if she took his place, “Sir, why do you wear gloves?”
Ignoring the question, he broke the eye contact as if uncomfortable.“I attended this school, just like you, and when I left, I promised to never come back. This school was once my demon, filled with nightmares and terrors that only return in dreams. For twenty-one years I held that promise, but as if a moth to a flame, I couldn’t resist. I kept on thinking, what would happen if there was a kid just like me, just as alone as I was? I could be the person who wasn’t there for me; and Sarah, I hope to be that for you.” Silence filled the empty room, the man’s words echoing off the walls, ringing in both their ears. Perfectly timed, the bell went off; it was time for class.
Sarah sat up in her chair, brushing off her skirt and pulling her bag of the ground. She smiled the smallest smile and said, “Sometime again?”
The man nodded, and like that, she left.
After school let out, and everyone went home to families who love, Sarah held back. Walking down the Hall of History. Class pictures and trophies lined the class cabinets. Her hand sliding across the metal plaques that signify the year. 1935, 1934, 1933. Sarah’s eyes stuck to a class photo, 1931-1932. The boy in the bottom right corner. Skinny and pale, eyes with no emotion. Hands, positioned unlike others, behind his back.
The girl who has it all, a child that grew up in a lie, now walks a path with no end in sight. Until she finds the kid, like herself and the boy with the talon hands or anyone that has walked a similar path.
flawed.
Her mittens started to feel colder. It was clear we needed to stop soon.
But for what? To make her sip more rotten apple juice?
‘Now she’s doing her pouty face.” I thought, “ It’s time to sit.”
I didn’t care about myself anymore. But her. She was just learning ABC’s when they came in, and dad ran into hiding.
Days, weeks, months went by.
“He’s coming back, I promise”
He didn’t.
We had no choice but to leave. I never liked that house anyways. Yet a part of me thought we could get away with living there without anyone noticing. We almost did, until-
I felt tears coming to my eyes.
“Now I can’t show my face. She’ll start crying” I thought.
Then my throat felt suffocated. She could definitely see it now.
Then she reached into her backpack and took out a bright tulip.
“Where did you get this?”
She shrugged.
I laughed somewhat. Then cried. She deserved the world.
“So this flower just appeared in December?” I asked, now crying the sad tears that turned into joy.
She nodded and I extended my hand to her, feeling fuller than when we sat down.
“Come on, Lacey. It’s sunset.”
You belong with me. I’ve always said that. Since the day I met you, I knew it instantly. Everything about you was gorgeous. Flawless. The way you always seemed to be cheerful, and made everyone around you feel the same. The way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved. The way you smiled; A true, genuine, smile.
The day we first crossed paths seems like a lifetime ago. For all I know, it might as well have been. You were charming. You noticed me when no one else did, you understood me when no one else did. You saw me, when no one else did.
You look just as beautiful now. Even when your eyes are permanently closed. Even when you’re cold and lifeless. I’ve always said that you belonged with me. And now you do.
The pie on the kitchen counter is made with love. Mamma says that is the secret ingredient in all her pies. There is always a pie on the counter. Mamma makes them every morning. By the time the birds wake up Mamma is mixing sugar and butter. The entire house smells like her creations when she is done.
Mamma never lets me have any of her pies, she says they are for our guests. We almost always have guests. Hospitality is another one of her talents. Mamma says every good southern woman has it. Mine is taking a little while to get here.
Our guests never seem to share Mamma’s love for hospitality. They are all big city men who come late at night, their big city boots track mud on the floors, and their bags, stuffed to full of their city lives, take up so much space in our halls.
It’s my job to take their bags to their room when they arrive. I hate the way they smile at me after. Yellow teeth the color the daffodils in the garden. Mamma says their teeth are like that from to much city air. I wonder if the city air also makes their voices so rough. I hate seeing their sour footsteps lingering around all of Mamma’s sugar. When I tell Mamma this she just laughs and tells me to do what I’m told.
“All proper ladies use manners” She coos, sweeping the dirt off the floor. So I don’t complain when their shiny cars pulls into our driveways anymore.
“Thank you.” I say, “Enjoy your stay.” Sometimes one of Mamma’s guests will ask me questions. I just smile and pretend I don’t hear them. Sometimes it’s hard though, and Mamma scolds me later for being rude.
Every guest only stays for one night, that’s the rule. Their bags are always still there. Even after the time is up. They just up and leaves their fancy suits and shiny shoes. Sometimes they even leave gold watches the dressers.
“I hate these big city people.” I whispered to Mamma one night. Mamma just laughed and told me that hate was an ugly emotion, and that I was too sweet to get caught up in something like that. I laughed to but it didn’t make me any less mad. I wonder what is is like to be so rich that they can just leave what is theirs.
After Mamma finishes her pie we clean. Mamma cleans the floor while I wash the bedding. When I come down stairs the whole house smells like sugar and rosemary again. Just like Mamma.
“We’ll make a game of it,” She says, “Even cleaning can be fun when I’m with you.”
Next Mamma and I will gather up all of our guests belongings. What she can’t burn she’ll bury. Sometimes the fires will last all night. I used to worry that the fire will get to high and burn down our whole house, but Mamma started bringing out marshmallows and blankets so we could keep an eye on it. Now I don’t worry so much. Sometimes I will dance around the fire until my feet hurt, celebrating that no more city is left in our house. At least till the next one pulls into our driveway.
Every guest is the same, and everyone has a piece of pie before they leave. Mamma makes sure of that. She says that a good piece of pie will warm the soul and keep them safe on their journey. They all may laugh, but every one takes a slice. That is the power Mamma has over people.
Sometimes I ask Mamma why I can’t have friends over. Mamma says that part of the magic is in the secret. Me and Mamma have lots of secrets. I am the only person Mamma can trust.
“That is why you must not worry about the guests. They will be gone by the time you wake up.” Mamma whispers. They always are.
Mamma says the world lacks trustworthy people. That is why we should be so glad we have each other.
“I don’t know what I would do without you my love.” She hugs me and the whole world smells like Mamma, like sugar and blueberries, apples and cinnamon, rhubarb and lavender. She wakes me up with the sun so we can start the day together. She dances around my room until I am out of the covers and on my feet.
“Good morning love!” She sings, arms swishing over head and apron swirling around her hips.
On the mornings after our guest leave however she smells like dirt and forest. She doesn’t dance and the sun has already woken up. We won’t get to start the day together. On those days Mamma bakes. She bakes all morning and never lets me into the kitchen. When she comes out she feels better and smells once again like sweet things. She asks me if I want to help her clean. I always say yes.
When the man dressed in blue knocks on our door Mamma is still in the kitchen baking a pie. She never has guests back to back. Mamma doesn’t like it when I bother her in the kitchen. I think about sending him away and telling him to come back when she is done, but that wouldn’t be a good manners and Mamma would be angry.
“Can I take your bags.” I offer. The man does not seem to have a bag with him. His suit is weird with lots of patches on it. Nothing like Mamma's usual guests. It also has a metal badge on the front which I hope he doesn’t leave because it won’t burn and we will have to go through the trouble of burying it.
“Are you here all by yourself?” He asks. He does not say anything about bags but I keep my hand out anyway hoping it will remind him. It does not.
“Mamma is in the kitchen. She isn’t ready for guests, but I can take your bags to your room so y’all can get settled.” I give the man my best smile, but he doesn’t seem to notice. A few more men in the same blue suit come up, none of them have bags either.
“Can you fetch her for us?” He asks, kneeling down so I can see the individual hairs of his beard. Mamma says that people with facial hair are known for devious character. I don’t like how pie gets stuck in their beards.
“I can take your bags.” My smile is getting harder to force. The men in the matching blue share a look with each other. My arm is getting tired but I’m afraid Mamma will walk out of the kitchen and ask why I haven’t taken proper care of her guests.
The man looks like he is about to ask again but one of his friends nudges his arm. He looks up and I follow his eyes. Mamma is walking towards us. I try to telepathically warn her that these guys are weirdos. She smiles and extends her hand. The man shakes it, but pulls away fast. His hands go back to hovering around her belt.
“Hello officers, What can I do for you today?” She says.
“Sorry to bother you ma'am but we’re here to speak about a Mr. Jefferson Moes. He apparently stayed here a few weeks ago.” The men asks.
“Of course, come on into the dinning room. Can I get you a piece of pie. Fresh out of the oven.” Mamma’s smile never wavers but her steps are stiff and quick.
One of the men stays and sits with me on the couch. He asks me questions about me and Mamma, like how long we’ve lived here, and where my daddy is. He asks about the guests as well, he seems especially interested in the fires. I answer honestly because Mamma says that people of purity don’t lie. Even to strange men who wear ugly blue suits with lots of patches, don’t come with bags and refuse to eat your Mamma’s pies.
He doesn’t move his hands when he talks, he keeps them firmly in his lap. Like a statue. The only thing that moves are his lips.
“Would you like to see one of the fires? It’s not lit right now but if you stay for supper it will be.” I ask. Mamma never lets guest stay for them but she never said anything against it. Mamma is usually pretty clear about what sort of things are against the rules.
He says yes and I lead him through the glass door to the path in the backyard. Usually Mamma wants me to tell her when I leave the house alone, but she is busy with the other men right now, and I am not alone.
He doesn’t ask me anymore questions until we get to the fire pit. The last guests clothes are in a heap, ready to be burned. The man kneels by one of the shirts that has fallen off the pile. I want to tell him not to do that because Mamma will be mad but I don’t want to be rude. He seems pretty focused. I don’t know why, it’s just a standard blue shirt.
“This is sure a lot of stuff to leave behind.” He says, kneeling down by a pair of brown leather shoes.
“Mamma says that big city folk have so much stuff they don’t mind leaving some behind now and then.” I say. The man is walking around the fire pit, pulling on a pair of plastic gloves.
“Why don’t you run back to the house, I’m sure your mother has a piece of pie waiting for you.” He says, his back is turned and I can see the muscles in his neck tick.
“I am not allowed to have any. Mamma says they are for the guests. Nothing like a pie made with love before a journey.” I say quoting Mamma.
“Then we should go back inside. You must be chilly. My friends and I will come out here later.” He says, pulling the gloves off and putting it in one of the pockets in his ugly blue suit.
The man is silent the entire walk back. Mamma is waiting for us by the glass door. At first I was afraid she was angry at me for leaving without telling her, but when she sees us she smiles. She holds out a piece of apple pie to the man.
“I just fed the rest to your buddies. Saved the last piece for you.” She says, smiling he takes the plate.
“Thank you” The man says.
The next day the men’s blue suits are sitting in our fire pit and Mamma is hard at work on another pie. Sitting on the counter next to the sugar and the flour is a bottle of Mamma’s love.
“Our secret.” She says, pouring in a generous helping. No one but Mamma and I know that Mamma’s love comes in a bottle labeled arsenic.
Delicate, rigid, wispy-thin
The soul stood everlasting
Caressed by memories
Enfolded by emotion.
Sadness. It harpooned into the soul
Shattering it into glassy shards
Empty. It's what she felt
when the harpoon wouldn't budge
Broken. It's what she felt
when she decided to mend and persevere
Pain. It's what she felt
when the shards pierced her fingers
Desperate. It's what she felt
when putting the pieces together reopened wounds
Relief. It's what she felt
when she finished putting herself all together
Wonder. It's what she felt
when she saw what her soul had become
Alive. It's what she felt
when she saw what the pieces created
Enlightened. It's what she felt
when she gazed at the beautiful carvings
Awe. It's what she felt
when she looked at herself, her soul, her emotions
Brightened. It's what she felt
When she realized she wasn't the same being
Anew. It's what she had become
Her soul infinitely changed
Strong, hopeful, everlasting.
I loved you because you never killed bugs. You couldn’t stand them, yet when a fly buzzed around our kitchen, you only watched before I slapped it against the wall. I asked you why you did nothing and you said it was because you didn’t like the idea of hurting something alive. You smiled again, and I realized it was the first real smile I ever saw from you.
I didn’t say anything after that because you never killed me.
You cut my hair because your scissors were too blunt to cut through skin. You threw my makeup away because I looked prettier when my cheeks turned purple from your fist. You poured words that tasted like poison down my throat and warned me not to burn my tongue. Like it was honey.
Yet when I wanted to die, when I really thought I would, you looked down at me with a smile dancing across your lips. I asked you why you didn’t kill me, and you said it was because I was still alive.
I remembered then, how you hated bugs. And that the first time you smiled for real was when the bug died.
When I first came into this world, this town was leaving it. I was the only one who knew. Nobody really noticed me, but I noticed everything. It was little things, at first. The way the door to the library creaked as the doors split open, they way little sprouts of grass grew from the sidewalk, like vines reclaiming nature as their own. As I grew older, I was played on, but not noticed. I just wasn’t big enough. The kids disappeared, one by one, anyway, as they grew up. There were more important things to do. Sam was destined to be a dancer, Ethan, an artist. Valerie moved away when her talent for the violin bloomed, and Jack’s talent for photography would only develop if he was somewhere bigger, better. This town just wasn’t important enough. As I slowly grew taller and taller, more people realized how this town was dying. Even more people moved on, until there were none left. Now I stand at my full height, two hundred feet. I stand over the now dusty square and the abandoned playground. I am majestic, but nobody is here to see me. It’s too late to be noticed.