The Smoke Fills the Cracks and Settles Down as Ash by Anonymous
Your too-long hair bounced as the perfect target for the stranger’s grubby fist. You were engrossed as you scrawled out the words you couldn’t yet spell from the desk’s short seat. But then those misty fingers closed around a crayon, reaching over to scribble down the twisted, ocean-blue line of your name. The idea faded from the paper, and the crayon was lost to thought. His hand glitched two thumbs and his blurry face pixelated, but the smile’s warmth had feeling.
Your feet were still, standing on the lonely concrete of the sidewalk. The cool, calming wind rushed past to where he sat in the neighboring grass. At first, he twisted the dandelions and set the plucked flowers behind his ears. As the time forgot to pass, he grew restless. In your mind’s eye he’d begun to cut himself free, and you felt the tear in a jagged line across your shared, blurry mask. It wasn’t a smile, not anymore. Safety scissors cluttered down, and you made a frown at his beautiful masterpiece.
His face was what yours could be.
Your scrawny legs crumpled down the yellowing weeds beneath, sitting criss-cross applesauce on the playground’s looming hill. He lay, snow-angel arms sprawled, wobbly as your stick figure lines. His pale blue lips quivered and his green-grass clothes sunk into the unwelcoming dirt. He didn’t stop you, but his heavy limbs drooped as you pulled them to cross his chest, and his heart sagged away from your touch. You tucked him in as you slid your fingers to close the hollow eyes that still see more than you ever could.
Your hand scribbled the chalk to color the driveway, ruining the ugly puff of your sleeves with multicolored dashes. You scrutinized the craftsmanship as you sat beside the drawings, your toes in their sparkly shoes edging up against the line. They didn’t cross. The rain drips on your hidden shoulders as tears wash away the counterfeit sketch down into the barred grate of the sewer. As you wipe the blurry stain of his memory, the remnants of the golden-yellow chalk floats away with him.
“Was it enough?”
Tossing key scribbles into the rose-pink pyre with your aging hands.
Feeling its blue smoke, dark shadows filling your shattering cracks.
Tilting the edges of your melting smile downward.
Smoldering memories crumbling to ash.
Losing your will to find yourself, again and again.
And again.
Deciding you don’t care to know if you’ll ever be satisfied.
Your too-long hair bounced as the perfect target for the stranger’s grubby fist. You were engrossed as you scrawled out the words you couldn’t yet spell from the desk’s short seat. But then those misty fingers closed around a crayon, reaching over to scribble down the twisted, ocean-blue line of your name. The idea faded from the paper, and the crayon was lost to thought. His hand glitched two thumbs and his blurry face pixelated, but the smile’s warmth had feeling.
Your feet were still, standing on the lonely concrete of the sidewalk. The cool, calming wind rushed past to where he sat in the neighboring grass. At first, he twisted the dandelions and set the plucked flowers behind his ears. As the time forgot to pass, he grew restless. In your mind’s eye he’d begun to cut himself free, and you felt the tear in a jagged line across your shared, blurry mask. It wasn’t a smile, not anymore. Safety scissors cluttered down, and you made a frown at his beautiful masterpiece.
His face was what yours could be.
Your scrawny legs crumpled down the yellowing weeds beneath, sitting criss-cross applesauce on the playground’s looming hill. He lay, snow-angel arms sprawled, wobbly as your stick figure lines. His pale blue lips quivered and his green-grass clothes sunk into the unwelcoming dirt. He didn’t stop you, but his heavy limbs drooped as you pulled them to cross his chest, and his heart sagged away from your touch. You tucked him in as you slid your fingers to close the hollow eyes that still see more than you ever could.
Your hand scribbled the chalk to color the driveway, ruining the ugly puff of your sleeves with multicolored dashes. You scrutinized the craftsmanship as you sat beside the drawings, your toes in their sparkly shoes edging up against the line. They didn’t cross. The rain drips on your hidden shoulders as tears wash away the counterfeit sketch down into the barred grate of the sewer. As you wipe the blurry stain of his memory, the remnants of the golden-yellow chalk floats away with him.
“Was it enough?”
Tossing key scribbles into the rose-pink pyre with your aging hands.
Feeling its blue smoke, dark shadows filling your shattering cracks.
Tilting the edges of your melting smile downward.
Smoldering memories crumbling to ash.
Losing your will to find yourself, again and again.
And again.
Deciding you don’t care to know if you’ll ever be satisfied.
PERCEIVED MISDIAGNOSIS By Montgomery Gomes
“All I can hope for you is that you get better.” he told me plaintively, a soft frown gentle on his porcelain white face.
“How is it going to get any better like this?” I retorted as I turned away in my bed, “No one’s going to believe me.”
I curled up in the warm sheets as I felt his weight lightly shift the edge of the mattress as he sat. I glanced up at him with tired, wet, puffy eyes. He wasn’t really there, I knew this well, yet he held a shadowy, humanoid complexion. Completely pitch black; he ate up any light that tried to shine against his skin. His head shaped as if he donned a triangular headdress, the only white that showed was his mask-like face. Half of it was distorted in dark, black cracks. Despite everything, he looked at me with a wistful expression. I couldn’t believe that I was hearing and seeing him again. I really wish I didn’t, despite the comforts he placed in front of me. I knew he wasn’t an angel or demon, he was just him. A strange entity, a thing I couldn’t shake off.
“You know not everyone is going to.” He tenderly replied, “You can’t let them do this to you.”
“I know…” I softly groaned through hitched breath and silent tears, “It just hurts to be misunderstood all my life.”
“You’ll be okay.” he continued, “You have more people than you think.”
“What if I won’t be?” I interrupted, turning my tear-streaked face to his, my body twisting the sheets over my shoulder, “I don’t have the people who should listen the most; I don’t have my parents with me.”
He paused there, his face flashed with pity, but churned into a look of thought as he shifted his weight. He let out a short sigh as he moved to lay down besides me.
“You’re growing up.” He started simply as he looked up at the ceiling, “you won’t need your parents soon, you can be yourself without them, no matter what they believe you have or who you are. You don’t need their approval to exist.”
“But… I don’t know where to go.” I whimpered to him, my eyes wide as I looked over to him, “I don’t have anything down, I don’t know how to drive, I’m barely an adult.”
“You’ll be an adult soon.” He gazed at me hopefully, “You’ll be a good one too.”
I took a breath to question why as I reached out for him, yet he had disappeared, leaving a warm, yet empty spot on my rustled bedsheets. As I stared at the emptiness, I started to sob.
“All I can hope for you is that you get better.” he told me plaintively, a soft frown gentle on his porcelain white face.
“How is it going to get any better like this?” I retorted as I turned away in my bed, “No one’s going to believe me.”
I curled up in the warm sheets as I felt his weight lightly shift the edge of the mattress as he sat. I glanced up at him with tired, wet, puffy eyes. He wasn’t really there, I knew this well, yet he held a shadowy, humanoid complexion. Completely pitch black; he ate up any light that tried to shine against his skin. His head shaped as if he donned a triangular headdress, the only white that showed was his mask-like face. Half of it was distorted in dark, black cracks. Despite everything, he looked at me with a wistful expression. I couldn’t believe that I was hearing and seeing him again. I really wish I didn’t, despite the comforts he placed in front of me. I knew he wasn’t an angel or demon, he was just him. A strange entity, a thing I couldn’t shake off.
“You know not everyone is going to.” He tenderly replied, “You can’t let them do this to you.”
“I know…” I softly groaned through hitched breath and silent tears, “It just hurts to be misunderstood all my life.”
“You’ll be okay.” he continued, “You have more people than you think.”
“What if I won’t be?” I interrupted, turning my tear-streaked face to his, my body twisting the sheets over my shoulder, “I don’t have the people who should listen the most; I don’t have my parents with me.”
He paused there, his face flashed with pity, but churned into a look of thought as he shifted his weight. He let out a short sigh as he moved to lay down besides me.
“You’re growing up.” He started simply as he looked up at the ceiling, “you won’t need your parents soon, you can be yourself without them, no matter what they believe you have or who you are. You don’t need their approval to exist.”
“But… I don’t know where to go.” I whimpered to him, my eyes wide as I looked over to him, “I don’t have anything down, I don’t know how to drive, I’m barely an adult.”
“You’ll be an adult soon.” He gazed at me hopefully, “You’ll be a good one too.”
I took a breath to question why as I reached out for him, yet he had disappeared, leaving a warm, yet empty spot on my rustled bedsheets. As I stared at the emptiness, I started to sob.
