Resting on a mantel lies a glossy photo in a thin spruce frame.
A family of four glows against the mottled blue backdrop of a mall photo kiosk; two parents stand behind a young boy and an older daughter.
The father’s smile is well worn into his face, and his gelled hair is graying at the temples. The mother’s hazel eyes glow with pride, and her perfectly manicured hand rests on her son’s shoulder. The son beams, displaying a gapped smile and a houndstooth sweater. The teenage daughter, wearing a starched collared shirt bearing the seal of a prestigious university, folds her hands in her lap.
This photo sits in the family room; a family room only by name. In it, a couch with taught cushions and perfectly fluffed pillows sits atop a freshly vacuumed carpet, while the mantel gathers a dusty sheen over its white-painted wood.
The father is in the adjacent kitchen, cooking. Getting an early start on dinner, he measures out ingredients with tense shoulders and a practiced precision. Today, he must scale down his recipe.
His oven is already preset, and used dishes are stacked in a neat pile by the sink. He is a well oiled machine.
His smile lines lay dormant as he dices tomatoes. A strand falls in his face, and he goes to gel his hair again.
A short car ride away, the woman sits at her desk, fists clenched so hard the chewed-down nubs of her nails leave an impression on her palms. The glass window of her office displays the kingdom she presides over, perfect rows of cubicles.
A man she sat with at lunch, discussing profit projections, walks past her window and pretends he doesn't see a tear fall out of her tired, reddened eyes.
The young boy sits solemnly at his desk. His teacher drones through a lesson as his closest friends giggle and pass notes. When addressed, his face breaks into a joker grin, and his friends observe that his teeth are growing in. He is wearing a black sweater with his school uniform.
When no one is looking, his face resumes its stoic frown. This child, whose school administrators are talking in hushed tones, just stares forward, occasionally remembering to smile.
You wouldn’t be able to find the girl if you tried.
She isn’t in her room, listening to music, or at the movie theater. She isn’t running on the track with the skill only years of training can achieve. She isn’t playing the blues or laughing with friends or sitting alone and crying in her new college dorm. She isn’t attending class with knotted hair and deep purple eyebags. She’s not convulsing in sobs while writing on a torn piece of lined paper.
Not anymore
The photo, still glossy, tugs at the dad as he cleans the family room. He carefully dusts it off before hurling it to the floor. And he can’t bring himself to sweep up the shattered pieces.
The Butterfly
A caterpillar crawls
Down the side of a leaf
That wilts under her weight
She drops playfully
To a branch below
And dangles off the edge.
In contortionist moves
She weaves a silken hammock
And leans back. writhing.
In pain, seemingly,
And her once vibrant green
Is relinquished.
The caterpillar falls to the floor.
The writhing stops.
And eons pass as days.
Six still sunsets later
A silken shape splits, and she is born.
The sky sees her beauty
In painted aqua hues,
And screams in pain,
In jealousy of her blue.
And so it carries out
One thing only it can do,
And sends torrents of rain
To the insect born anew.
And she flaps her silken wings
And the weather begins to pursue
Its newfound silky bane
The butterfly's wings accrue
Wet beads. And she begins to flap frantically
Flying, flopping, as each drop lands
On her failing wings. Crumpling, under
All the rain, sent by a jealous sky
She falls into a puddle on dying grass,
And the sky’s tears absorb her failing cobalt wings.
A vast stage of deep ebony, so dark it would seem infinite if not for the crisp reflections of bright stage lights, is framed by plush velvet curtains. An audience has drawn a deep breath as the pit orchestra sustains a single, watery note. A concert A, in vibrato-laden octaves, rings through the hall.
Then, a soft, methodical thumping, as the first ballerina walks in on pointe. Her hands rest gracefully in the air above her face, and she is the mirror image of the line that trails behind her. Perfectly uniform, clad in blushed satin and sober expressions, the dance company files onto stage.
Only one of the ballerinas has a face flushed nearly as pink as her tutu, her shallow breathing less measured than those around her.
The audience’s eyes are attentive, and their mouths are pressed shut in tight little lines. A flutist begins a sweet tune, quick breaths darting between gaps in the notes. Women decked in silk and pearls whisper tentatively to tuxedoed men, who smile in anticipation.
A solo ballerina, as sweet and simple as the melody, traces a path away from the group. Her eyes are still tranquil, but her mouth has curved into a smile, and she begins to sway with the music. Each move, technically difficult, is executed to perfection, a human body becoming simple artistic lines. Behind her, the group twirls and spins in unison, save for the pink-cheeked girl, whose deep black eyes are wide, framed by puffy red bags, defined by a glossy sheen.
Her movements are almost in time with the company, but an attentive observer may see her falling ever so slightly behind, wispy hair flying out of her bun as she imitates those around her.
The flute dies out as the soloist returns to the formation. The audience metes out a soft applause as a low drone rises from the orchestra. A swish of fabric is audible over the tuba crescendo, and the ballerinas begin to twirl. The bleary eyed, flushed ballerina and the soloist are in perfect unison with the others as the music speeds up.
Audience members lean forward as french horns start shouting chromatic lines, and the speed of the turns increases. Soon, the trumpets and flutes join in a melody that starts bright and hopeful but devolves into something entirely different, frantic and loud, punctuated by racing kettle drums.
The ballerinas become a twirling blur, and at last the blushing one begins to falter, leaning ever so slightly to the left. The audience’s gasp is drowned in the caucus of the musicians, but their pointing fingers scream, and the ballerina sees them start to laugh hysterically as she falls. The smooth ebony burns her bare arms as she collides with the floor. The other dancers are still perfection.
And the audience watches voraciously. And the music is just a single note again.
The collapsed dancer closes her tear stained eyes, catching one last glimpse of the soloist, still twirling expertly.
When she opens them moments later, she’s alone.
Still.
She lifts her head to look out at the darkness, her vision obscured by a curtain of dark hair. She sees the sea of empty seats and sobs as they laugh, sobs as the silent music soars in mockery.
Defeated, she closes her eyes again and curls up, the rough fabric of her gray sweatpants pressed against her quivering chin.
All that remains of the recital is that A, ringing in her ears.
Perspective 1:
I was at my kitchen table eating Lucky Charms.
Lucky Charms are my favorite cereal. I hate the grain bits, but the marshmallows are just so good.
My mom says I have to eat the grain bits, but I disagree. If the dog likes them more than me, he should have them.
I had just eaten the red balloon charm, which is my totally the best one, because the box says it gives you the power to float. I think it tastes like strawberry.
I haven’t learned to fly yet, but it’s coming. Sometimes when I fall asleep, I feel really light, so it’s only a matter of days before I float up out of my bed. Maybe I’ll go all the way up to the moon if I eat enough of them.
When I had just eaten the marshmallow balloon, my mom was in the kitchen behind me. She likes to look out the window while I eat and she cleans dishes. I can’t complain, because then she doesn’t ever see me pass gross food to the dog.
Out of nowhere, she screamed. I heard a plate break and my dog jumped back. I think I heard my dog scream too.
I was horrified. My mom must have figured out I only ate the marshmallows.
I quickly mixed up my cereal again, getting rid of all the hard work it took to separate it into two piles, and shoved a big, disgusting, grainy spoonful into my mouth.
I think she bought it because she ran up and hugged me. She was crying, so I guess she was super proud of me for listening. She told me to stay seated and walked really slowly back to the window, but I knew it was a test, so as she peeked out I ate another bite of my cereal. She can’t fool me.
I heard a gasp and a sigh and she ran back to me again, crying even harder. It was almost school time, but she said I shouldn’t go outside, and I had earned a day off.
I must be the sneakiest person alive because she didn’t suspect a thing, and I got to eat dinner in front of the TV that night like it was nothing.
Totally cool.
Perspective 2:
You know me.
The whole world does,
Hundreds of humans
Hear me hiss
Hear me cry.
I was whisking by an apartment complex,
When the man ripped through me
I returned his scream to his ears.
I saw him fall,
And I tried to cushion the concrete,
To rise and swirl around his form.
To no avail.
Our screaming got louder
The world seemed to sing along.
A man on the ground;
A woman in a window.
The concrete itself
Called for us to stop,
And the screaming did,
Replaced with a solemn silence.
As I hissed down the street
A sobbing started.
But it soon stopped.
I just kept moving.
Hundreds of humans
Hear me hiss,
Hear me cry.
Sometimes they cry back
Perspective 3:
A thin man stood on a rooftop, tears streaming down his sunken cheeks. His pale form was jarring against the deep red of the bricks below him.
The sky was clear, cloudless, a deep blue that you could get lost in.
A pigeon flapped past, unaided by the still air. Below, stragglers wandered by, worker ants with commutes to make.
The man stared at this, at all of this, but didn’t see it, blinded by the tears clouding his once-blue eyes. He seemed to be pleading, babbling little nothings beneath his trembling breath. His hair was a ragged black mop that hadn’t seen a brush in days, his face scarred by acne that had long since passed.
His yellowing nails dug into his palms as his knuckles turned an even brighter shade of white. The note in his hand, addressed to his girlfriend, began to crumple and tear.
The wind started to flow, picking at his pitted skin and wiping his tears from his cheeks. It whisked away the words he shouted, words indicated only by the seething jealousy in his lips. His bony frame was clear beneath his billowing clothing.
He ran with all the speed he could muster. He was a flash against the all-consuming brickwork, a screaming flash.
He launched himself.
But I pushed him back, away from me, towards the edge. He was light as I pushed, still, he fell down with the whistling wind. I heard noise as people watched, as dogs barked, as he caught the concrete below.
I didn’t see him fall.
My focus was on the letter, bearing my neat print, which had failed to fall alongside him and now floated upwards in the gust of air. I grabbed its remnants from the grasp of the raging wind before dropping to lay my shaking body on the ground.
The blue sky hadn’t changed. It really was the type of sky you could float into, never to be seen again.