The stench of exhaust, the hardness of the seat, the mud in my cleats. With a slam the door shut, trapping me in. His disappointed tone, the heat of his words, barely restrained fury. Red-tinged and small the helmet gave no comfort, even out on the field. Shoulder pads tightening, socks constricting, heart in my stomach. Passing lights in the window, shining their pity too far to help. The assault continued, “terrible plays, shoulda caught that, piece of shit.” That’s all I was. The helmet nodded, pads shrugged, cleats tapped in affirmation. A failure.
This is my dog. There are many like her, but this one is mine. by: Jennifer Roberts, Archival Inkjet Print, 2019
Hollow
Dead was written all over his face and hands,
as if there was nothing left to be said except
all the little lies that make life hollow: I’m fine and Work was good and It doesn’t bother me much anymore.
Alone in his apartment with brittle-bone walls
he spat poetry like noxious fire,
melted plastic, burning skin;
sure that his neighbors both heard
and heard nothing,
the smoke erupting from his throat
so raw and thick it could be seen as
a signal of defeat for miles around.
Sometimes, he would listen to NPR
on the way home from work
and hear the story of another
fucking rapist and scream.
White knuckles clenching the steering wheel, gas pedal crushed like some bastard’s skull,
flying down the highway until he was somewhere else,
entirely.
He tucked his words out of reach,
the whispers of what was
echoing in no man’s land, a dead language.
He put his typewriter away,
locked it in boxes like caskets
thrown overboard during a violent storm
so that a leak wouldn’t sink the whole ship.
They’re already dead anyway, right?
Except he wasn’t sure if the words were dead,
or himself, or just the ears
of people who listened.
So he trapped the images
the way one traps a bear:
One foot broken, secured, but still with rage
only slightly confined. Well, maybe if you leave it long enough, he’ll die on his own…
…silence is the solution:—solution to what?
And what silence can he keep
when every blink and tremor is filled
with chaotic rhythms and
feelings, repulsive feelings, so loud
I hate Her laugh, the way it pounds in my ears Too light and too sweet to be genuine Feigning angelic nature Just as the Serpent of Eden lured the innocent in a malicious ruse She baits the innocent to drag them down to the burning gate
I hate Her lying eyes manifesting emotions She could not possibly feel for Lucifer had not granted her the privilege Her doe-eyed appearance gives a mirage of purity to hide the sin within
I hate Her damned smile She sneered like a beast Monstrous being waiting for me to slip Her dainty fucking dimples gives an aura of purity But with Her white teeth, hidden ready to snap and kill.
I hate Her touch the slightest brush burns me with the heat of Her Hellfire leaving scars on my soul
Oh, God, I fought it I promise you I did. Her attempts to drag me down to Lucifer’s golden throne to bar me from the Heavens above yet Her talons clutch my heart Ripping and scarring my soul, too filthy to be held in Your hands again.
Yet my soul pines for Her heat and the comfort of Her burn
I would trade all the comforts of Heaven and Grace to have the warmth of Her and Her fire even when God looks down upon me and says “I hate her.”
Hate by: Gina Acampora, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
Crude
Freshly clipped hair Flutters to the floorboards, Scattered and Yellow Like scarecrow straws, Daffodil petals, And the scatterings of stars Sewn to the sweaters of civilians, A word scrawled across them, Its connotation come to mean ‘Crude.’
Posted to the door outside What was once Mr. Applebaum’s general store, Where within, He used to sit on his stool, Selling yarn by the spool: Yellow– Brand new– For money he knew to be Worth more than he: The seller and The Jude.
There are many moments, images, scenes, and ideas that I wish I could draw.
Unfortunately, due to my lack of talent in that department, I am forced to write them instead.
In another world, I could have been an artist. I have the mind for it, not to mention that I took overpriced lessons the summer of fourth grade, and for a nine-year-old fresh out of school (and therefore concentration), I wasn’t half bad. All I drew were dogs, though—beagles and terriers shaded in charcoal over the yellowed pages you’d find in a Half-Price Books store; the kind of paper that is so old and beloved, it smells more of life than of death—this despite the writers of their words and the readers of their times having long since departed to their graves.
I’ve been a cat person since infancy, and to tell my unpopular truth, I consider dogs to be overrated. I understand how one would grow attached to them, I just can’t fathom why anyone would subject themselves to that annoying of a responsibility. Then again, I have a similar philosophy concerning children.
It took years for my mother to ingrain in me that I was N-O-T NOTgoing to get a cat. Nine, to be exact—at which point I’d resolved that if I couldn’t get a cat, then dammit, I would be damned if I didn’t get a dog (I didn’t get a dog).
Both of my parents had dogs, and before my grandfather blasted his brains out with a bullet, he had twelve of them. Twelve. Guess that’s a good enough reason to. (Dark jokes are within my rights, he was my grandfather, not yours.)
Most people can’t believe the whole twelve dogs scenario, and I’d share a similar mindset but for two reasons. The first is experience: waking up when morning looked like night, when owls screeched like crows rumored to be cursed, to take a none-too-peaceful trip to the middle-of-nowhere Mississippi. Arriving where feet would fall on squishy dog shit while all twelve—I repeat, twelve—of the beasts would throw themselves at me in a storm of mangy, fly-ridden fur I’d have no choice but to scratch up my nose inhaling, and big, suffocating bodies—all bad breath and barking—the vicious versions of pouncing cats. These weren’t little dogs, mind you. These were giants. Monsters with violently wagging tails and tongues flopping from fangs.
I got into a routine where, after I’d stepped out from the safety of the car (which would, ironically enough, run over one of my gramp’s dogs one trip or another [guess that’s a good enough reason to—]), I’d gather my almost colonial-looking doll, Lily (she had the brown-knit bonnet and everything), in my fists, and hoist her in a protective shield against me. Clutching onto her dress the way victims of all things—grief, disease, death—grip to the flimsy fabric of their tissues until they tear because they’re so sick, they’re trembling, I’d prevail through what was a war zone in my mind by cringing with my head cast low.
The second reason I firmly believe in insanity is due to the amount of freaking (*fucking) cats I’ve had. That’s right. Living squashed beneath the rule of She Who Descended From Twelve Dogs and an allergic brother, I ended up getting not one, not two, but a shit-load of cats. By the time I reached fifteen, my legacy as the crazy cat lady was known—I’d had over thirty cats. (That doesn’t even cover the fiasco of rabbit raising, but that’s a story for a time that is soon, but isn’t yet [and thank God for that].)
There are plenty of pictures I’d love to draw rather than write because there are only so many words I can give you (“xylophone,” “clandestine,” “incandescence,” “sauerkraut,” “maladroitly,” “scissors”). As I type this, I’m sitting outside in a present that will soon be past. It’s spring again. The crickets are screeching as though someone has strung a rosined bow against a collect symphony of them, my siblings are chattering while I’m flinching nearly every second due to all of the goddamn mosquitoes drifting towards my computer screen (I’m going inside), and a car alarm is going off, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP: just another evening in Houston, much like any other place in the world. Minutes prior to this, among my typing, my cat, Leia—the one who’d started this whole mess of cat inbreeding—nuzzled herself against my leg before suddenly tensing, spine straightening, and bounding for the bushes—oh, no.
I followed immediately after, settling my laptop down on the chair before doing so, of course—I’d witnessed too many murders at the paws of claws to mistake this instance for coincidence. Clapping wildly, she ignored me until I sprinted inside to retrieve a water bottle, then angled it her way. Her eyes were as jade in the shadows as they were in the sunlight when they levitated towards me, flinching with a disdain meant to plague me with rottenness down to my core—like a raccoon’s egg, coveted with a devotion nearly on par to Gollum’s—or like meat infected by mold. That’s what I get for giving a shit about wildlife.
Then there are memories. Old friends and new, family members here and gone—some remembered by their graves and others remembered for them. Futures that flicker for they may not even be, yet among them, those that feel firm, like they could be.
I wonder if an artist would envy me, she, or he—those who seem to put a pen to paper so effortlessly and weave worlds that can only be transcribed through brushstrokes by their hands.
I’d say it’s not so simple. I’d say I often doubt myself, and do even now, and I wonder who it would be to empathize with me, smile, agree?
Who would it be?
Would it be you?
Who?
I know. Of course, I do:
The artists, the poets, the musicians, the writers. The weavers, the crafters, the enchanters (and esses). These are the dissatisfied souls.
The leaves flutter in the wind, rustling their beautiful song to the vibrant azure sky. My children shudder as the last breeze of cold leaves the grove with the fallen fragments of shady green that float to the blades below. Brown mountains spread out in a line before me, as I skitter my way to the end of the lowest branch of the tallest tree in the forest; the heart of this land, my home. There, at the end of her extended arm, my children shake with anticipation of their emergence, their many eyes hungrily devouring me from inside their circular crystalline cocoons, the hairs on their legs beginning to sprout.
It will be a week now.
After plucking my way across the silken threads, I settle into the center of our netted nest, nestling in close to them, and rest. Here, I ponder the bittersweet relief I will receive from this life once they hatch and spread their many legs upon the soft bark of our great caretaker. A day passes, and then four more. Strange giants with only two eyes, and two legs upon which they walk, appear in the land. They shake our home with their presence, the trees shivering and groaning in displeasure. Leaves fall like feathers from a plucking bird as if to say leave me be. Why would the great mother be so frightened?
I crawl down her large trunk and observe. A disturbingly strange silver branch with a short orange trunk emerges from the steel steed on which the intruders first arrived, and I am fraught with dread as it suddenly starts to growl like a hummingbird with the ferocity of a bear.
No…
Time begins to slow in my disbelief, and terror echoes through each of my legs, the hair upon them spiking out like the quills of a porcupine. The two-legged abomination moves toward us, leaving utter desolation in its wake.
No!
I scamper along the branches in a panic, and tie my silk thread to a knot, then dive from my safety into battle. Just one bite! Surely, that will stop them. My venom will course through their veins and paralyze them so they will be rendered unable to harm anything else in the grove.
I land upon the strange beast’s brow and sink my fangs as deep as I can. It screams like a pitiful rabbit and I am flung into the forest of blades. When I lift my head, the intruding giant carrying the strange spinning silver arm of death approaches the great mother tree.
Our home…
My children!
Scurrying with all my might and dodging the green stalks as quickly as I can, my desperation and despair begin to sink deep into my abdomen.
Then, a great thud shakes the earth.
My children… gone with several snaps, a cacophonous chorus as the branches beneath our last safe place break from the weight of her withering frame. Yet here I stand above their broken bodies, their tiny hairy legs curled against their shattered shells. They will never get the chance to taste the life I had longed to give them with the sacrifice of my own body. Now, here I stand, among the wooden wasteland, cursed to live again.
Warriors in Four Seasons by: Susana A. Morales, Ceramics, 2019
Dammed Damsel
Get up, you must! The coffee will help. Lord, it’s me again…. Any day now, thanks. Two sweaters, and Vaseline for my knuckles, check.
I’ll just do it myself. They don’t pay me enough for this. Let it go, it’s not worth it, that guy’s always an asshole. I hope Gio ate his lunch. If he gets any skinnier he’ll disappear.
How long do I boil the beans? I can’t remember. Church begins at seven o’clock. We need to get ready. I don’t have time today; they’ll understand when they’re older.
Ugh, look at the time, and I still have to shower. Stop thinking about him. Moping won’t change anything. Lord, thank you for this day. Blessed be thy name, Amen.
There once was a field full of decomposing cars. All of them had missing pieces, things like doors and tires and various internal parts which had been scavenged out by a particularly skilled set of hands. In the spring, each one became overgrown with wildflowers and tall green grass. In the winter, they became ghostly visions, pale from the snow and even more lifeless looking than the rest of the year. All the cars were once a beautiful dream that someone had, just a thought. That person only had an idea and a passion to create but their dream ended up there, at the Liberty Yard in Sawyer, Nebraska. The cars decomposed without resistance; transformed into sad, faded memories. In the very back of the property, pressed against a wall of trees with wild beings dwelling among them, there was a house. It was a black house, the shutters, the porch, the front door, all of it was black. It looked as if it had been dipped in ink and plopped down in the middle of this strange car cemetery. As the sun went down and the daylight diminished to its ritual evening violet, the black house disappeared into its background of shadows. At night, the Liberty Yard looked like nothing more than just a big field full of ghoulish cars. Some would expect a cult of vampires to have lived here, or maybe an evil witch, but those things could not have been any further from the truth. The bored teens who lived in Sawyer at the time liked to dare each other to walk through the cars and all the way down the dirt road, they shuddered with a shrill breath and stared into the hazy darkness, trying to define the outline of the house against the whispering trees. The wooden porch creaked with the touch of a feather and there was a wind chime that swayed calmly in the midnight breeze, lulling any living thing to a habitual state of drowsiness. Their eyes would strain to see the house; their struggle would end when a porch light inevitably turned on, awakening their dormant consciences. They would run away as fast as they could, breathing heavily with pounding hearts. But little did they know of the person who lived here, the person who always scared them off with a simple flick of a light.
The Liberty Yard was a business, after all; it was owned and run by Helen McHenry. Helen was a large middle-aged woman with frizzy red hair. She bought old cars that could barely be driven anymore and she took them apart, scouring for all the usable parts which she then sold to various forms of clientele. When she would finish with the whole process, she would dump the remains of the car in her yard, usually the entire body and interior, to blissfully rot away. This process had gone on for over twenty years and it had become a huge part of her existence and her living. The appearance of the house was supremely unsettling, but she did it for a reason. It kept the pesky kids away—most of them, at least. She kept it creepy so they wouldn’t come in and smash the windows or try to drag off one of her good tires. She wasn’t a witch or a vampire at all; one couldn’t get any more harmless than Miss Helen McHenry. Helen liked to read autobiographies late at night and watch game shows or talk to her sister Charlotte on the phone. She had never been married but she didn’t mind. Before her son came into her life, she only cared about cars and paying bills—until he joined her in their austere abode. His name was Lewis.
It was a windy November evening when Helen was stirring a big pot of soup, adding spices and various things to make it better. Her radio was softly playing in her kitchen. She was humming along with the music when she was surprised by an unexpected knock on her door. She rarely ever had company and when she did, it was usually just a brave and determined solicitor, but never that late in the evening. She tentatively approached the front door and looked through the peep hole, out into the drizzly darkness, searching for one of those pesky children, but she couldn’t see anything or anyone. She wasn’t up for going out into the cold dark night and searching in the cars for the trespasser. Whoever knocked was scared enough to be out of sight in the matter of seconds it took her to get to the door. She ignored this and went back to her warm soup, occasionally stirring and tasting. It was a thick tomato and barley broth with big chunks of beef floating around. It was one of her favorite recipes. She made a nice bowl with a piece of toast, a wonderful dinner on that blustery evening. She sat down at her empty dinner table and began eating and humming along to her radio, when she slowly realized a small sound in her ears. Like an echo in the cave of her mind, it was so small and so unnoticeable that she thought nothing of it and continued to work on the crossword puzzle she started at breakfast. As she finished her bowl of soup, she could still hear the noise. At this point, it was hard to ignore. She couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from. She felt as if it were almost coming from everywhere in all directions. It shot chills down her spine and made her stand up with a jolt. Her heart beat began to accelerate.
“Is it the stove?” she whispered. She went into the kitchen and realized it had been properly turned off. She whirled around as a particularly heartbreaking note was played in this sad, mysterious symphony in her head. She concluded that she was just tired and she needed to go to bed. As she passed the front door to get to the stairs, she froze, waves of chills shooting down her arms and all the way to her toes. The sound was outside; definitely somewhere dwelling on the front porch. She looked out the peep hole again and only found darkness, but the sound was louder than ever. “Crying?” she asked herself, with horrified disbelief. She quickly opened the door and looked down; there was a small cardboard box with the faintest cry coming from it. Her hand clasped over her mouth, muffling her cracked gasp of panic. She looked out into the dirt road and into the freezing rainy night. Nobody was anywhere to be found. The familiar emptiness on her property suddenly became an abyssal expanse of abandonment. The person who left him had been long gone at that point. The porch creaked as she knelt down and opened the top that was loosely folded over him. He was very cute; his face was little and chubby and his eyes slowly blinked and looked up at Helen; his soft eyebrows were furrowed as if he was confused, almost as confused as her. The two of them just stared at each other, in awe. She had always been quite fond of babies, having been the oldest of seven siblings. She had plenty of practice with taking care of children. As she looked down at him, her fear immediately turned into her innate motherly will to protect. He was wrapped tightly in a white blanket and as she looked into the box, she found a note tucked in one of the folds. It read:
“Everything happens for a reason; endure with all you have. –Laurie”
The note was written in shaky blue ink as if it was done in an act of panic. The baby immediately stopped crying once Helen took him up into her arms. He had a little hat with the initials LM embroidered nicely. She looked in the box for anything else and found a photo. There was a woman sitting in a big chair, holding a baby. There was a man sitting on the arm of the chair, with his hand on her shoulder, perhaps looking down into her arms. The photo cut off at the woman’s neck, leaving both of their faces out of the frame. Helen could only see and maybe assume that these were his parents, yet there was no way of identifying them so she could aptly return this child to his rightful family. Miss McHenry took the baby and all his things inside her house, out of the bitter rain. She read Laurie’s note over and over again, holding him as he slept on her shoulder, shivering. Was she to keep this child? Was she going to seriously adopt a baby that had been left on her porch? Was she going to give him to an orphanage? As this particular thought ran through her head, she nearly became angry. No. She was not going to hand him over to some awful government program, for him to be labeled with a number and assigned a social worker as a mother. She knew right then and there that he was hers. She made a little bed for him from a dresser drawer and a pillow and a fresh blanket. She didn’t catch a wink of sleep that night. She only stared at him, from the edge of her bed. She was completely bereft. The next morning, she slowly drove to the store, with him riding in his box, looking around with his dark, confused eyes. She bought a car seat, a high chair, baby formula, diapers, and all the things one typically has ready before they bring a child home from the hospital. Helen felt an overwhelming love as she stared at this baby’s face. She was more than capable to provide a beautiful life full of love and opportunity for this boy. She had plenty of space and plenty of money to raise him. As she drove home from the store, she passed the Sawyer police station and slowly pulled over at the sight of it, without a conscious thought. She could carry him in there, hand him over to a bunch of grumpy men who would handle him however they could, and she could return all the things she had just bought. She stared at the split on the road of her future. She looked down at him as he bobbled and cooed with joy, and she immediately kept driving.
She named him Lewis and the fact that his last initial was an M was even more confirming for her. Lewis McHenry: she adopted him as her own family. She knew legal action was bound to take place and she had to be ready with a story. She would tell anyone threatening to take him from her that Laurie was an old friend she had from high school, yet was living a ravenous lifestyle where she had no means of taking care of a baby. If they asked for further details such as Laurie’s last name, she would tell them she never knew her last name. They were only mutual friends. And who was the friend that linked their apparent acquaintance? Helen couldn’t remember, she just knew that this baby had to be hers. She forgot about the matter as she brought him inside. She was going to have to get a crib and a new car eventually. Her pickup truck wasn’t exactly suitable for a family, but that was all to come. She had plenty of time, time which she only had intentions of watching unfold like a beautiful tapestry. She started this life with him, completely prepared yet entirely unaware.
Lewis was a very happy and playful baby who Helen was ever more thankful to have in her life. As he got older, he learned to walk as babies do. His favorite foods were sweet potatoes and grapes. He liked to climb on everything, especially the kitchen counters. He liked to toddle through the cars and look for little treasures which he kept in his box.
When he was around four years old, he started to ask about where he was from because he knew Helen wasn’t his mom. His dark hair, dark eyes, and freckled skin didn’t match her fair traits. She told him the complete truth. She showed him the box he was in, the blanket, the note, and the picture of the people holding him. His simple mind didn’t care too much at that age. He would usually just go right back to digging around in the field of cars or coloring in his book. He always knew that he should never feel unwanted or unloved because Helen clearly wanted him on that night he was left on her doorstep. She told him his parents wanted the best for him, a life they couldn’t provide. She treated him like a real son and he called her mom. They loved each other very much. The police never came to take him away; Helen never went to them to give him away. She and Lewis lived on, in their house suited for a ghoul.
Things took a turn when he started to go to school. His temper was very hot for a kindergartener. When kids would aggravate him, he would punch them or say something equally hurtful, or do both. As he got older, it only got worse. He turned into the kid who would boldly yell at the teacher or pin one of the other kids to the wall. He was the bad one. Even though he had terrible behavior and never any friends, Lewis was the smartest kid in the school. He won first place in the spelling bee during fourth grade, something he was very proud of. He had straight A’s in every subject on his report card but his conduct was always a U, which stood for unacceptable. At lunch he would always sit by himself, sometimes because he had been especially bad and he had to sit at the quiet table, but most of the time everyone was bored with his tantrums or too scared to sit next to him. They would call him Junkyard Joe because of where he lived or Box Boy because in first grade, he made the biggest mistake of telling the whole class he was from a box in hopes of gaining interest, but nobody found that interesting. It was just more ammunition for their hatred. Sometimes he would come home crying because the kids wouldn’t stop poking him and calling him names on the bus. Helen tried to teach him how to ignore the kids, but he couldn’t get it in his head. He didn’t understand the concept of “being the bigger person.” He hated all his classmates and he hated the teachers for not doing anything about it.
One day in 5th grade, he was sitting by himself drawing directly on his desk, watching the kids come in and put their backpacks away. When the bell rang his teacher, Mrs. Humphry, was at the door talking to the principal. Kids caught glimpses of him and they all sat up straight, as if he was going to punish them for no reason. When Mrs. Humphry came in, there was a new student following her. She wore a yellow sweater with a navy-blue pleated skirt and white stockings and black shiny shoes with little black bows on the toe. Her hair was nut brown and she had shiny blue eyes. Her face was so pale. Lewis had never seen skin so white. She had on a brown leather backpack and a silver metal lunchbox. All the kids were a little confused about her nice outfit. The only thing these kids knew were t-shirts and tennis shoes. Lewis squinted his eyes, unsure if she would be like everyone else; he turned away in negative judgement of her. She stood at the front of the class with a shy bravery.
“Everyone,” said Mrs. Humphry. “This is Emily Carnish. She is a new student in our class and she is all the way from the United Kingdom,” she said, pointing to England on their world map that hung on the wall. “Imagine what it feels like to not only be in a new school but a whole new country.” She made a face that made all the kids really think about it. “It’s scary right?” Half of them slowly nodded. “Yes, so let’s be very nice to our new friend, Emily. Okay?” Everyone nodded again. She leaned down and whispered something in Emily’s ear and then glanced up and pointed at Lewis’s empty table for four. That meant she was going to be sitting next to him. He didn’t like that. He liked being by himself at the table. He didn’t want anybody interrupting his book. She was all the way from England. He knew nothing about England but he thought maybe she would be nicer than the other kids. He would not wish loneliness on his worst enemy, so he eased up as she sat across from him. He smiled and she smiled back, something he liked but didn’t get too excited about.
“Hello,” she said. He said hello and they sat in silence as everyone else got out their morning journals and started to talk amongst themselves. Lewis started drawing on his desk again. His head was buried down and he wanted to say something but he had no words. What was he supposed to say? Not only was she new, but she was also a girl. Boys can’t talk to girls, and girls can’t talk to boys! What was Mrs. Humphrey thinking?
“Is that allowed here?” she asked as she watched him draw on his desk. Her small voice was doused in a British accent. It made him sit up. He had never heard anything like that before. He was too distracted by her accent to answer her. He looked down at the dog he was scribbling on his desk and then back up at her. Her face was distraught and she seemed annoyed.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Then why are you doing it?” she asked again in the foreign tone he had never heard before. He shrugged and stared at the ground as his face became hot. He thought this whole exchange was going south like all his potential friendships did. Emily would start aggravating him and he would never have any friends. She would ask to sit with a different table in the class and he would be left alone, forever. She had a furrowed brow, as if it really made her sad that he was breaking the rule.
“You sure do talk funny. I ain’t never heard nothing like that,” he said, laying his head back down, starting a new scribbling on another part of the desk. He didn’t like how she called him out. He will do what he pleases. He’s been here longer, and who is she to tell him what to do? But instead of being mean right back at him about his terrible grammar, she pulled out a notebook from her backpack and ripped out a piece of paper and handed it to him. He looked up in surprise.
“Go on and draw your pictures there,” she said without a smile, tapping on the sheet with one pretty finger. He looked at the paper in confusion. Nobody had ever shared their paper with him, unless you count throwing crumpled up paper balls at his back. Nobody had ever shared anything with him. He quickly wiped off the desk with his sleeve. This foreign kindness was so unexpected, but he went along with it. He still wasn’t sure about her.
Lunch came, and for the first time during the year he had someone to sit with. The cafeteria was gray and ill-lit. The low ceiling made everyone feel a little trapped. The mixed sound of children’s shouts and various wrappers crinkling filled the stuffy atmosphere. As Lewis dragged himself to his table by the trash cans and started to unpack his paper sack, there she was. He had only poked the straw in his juice box before he had her yellow sweater and pale blue eyes shining kindly in front of him.
“I’ll sit with you,” she said, taking the seat across from him with a smile. He sipped his juice and stared at her as she unpacked her lunch. She had a silver thermos of butternut squash soup with a feta and pickled beet salad, a clementine that smelt like flowers with a green leaf growing from it, and a torn end of a baguette, along with a glass bottle of milk. Compared to Lewis’s Wonderbread PB and J with Cheetos and a juice box, he looked at her food with a wild awe. He had never seen any kind of lunch like that. He ate silently and watched her as she looked around, noticing all the new American kids. They didn’t talk. He didn’t know what to say. He knew she had no other person to be with and that’s the sole reason why she chose his table. After all, it was just her first day. He knew she would probably leave his company at recess, find some group of snobby girls that would be greatly impressed by her clothes, and then she would leave him in the dust.
Recess came and he trotted off to the swing set under the pecan tree, where he usually went when he wasn’t fighting with the other boys. He could break the hard shell of the pecans with his bare hands, something most grown men couldn’t do. He was incredibly strong, and he had plenty of practice while he spent his afternoons at his swing set. The orange air was fresh and cool with the late September slowly dying all around them. The autumn breeze was nice and the leaves floated to the ground like fire-colored snow. Lewis swung high and leaned back as far as he could, holding on to the cold chain with all his might. He had a green sweatshirt on and denim shorts. He regretted not wearing pants like Helen told him to that morning. He thought about what he would be for Halloween and questioned how much candy he would get. As he was in the middle of his thoughts, he noticed Emily making her way to him. She was sweetly humming while she collected the bright red and yellow leaves. She was now wearing a black beret and scarf.
“Hi, boy,” she said as she took the swing next to him. He slowed his violent swinging until it came to a subtle sway. He was, again, pleased by her company, but all the more confused on why she actually liked him. Why wasn’t she off playing with the girls? Why would she rather be with this strange boy who swings by himself?
