Fiction

I lived in a world where outer beauty is the only kind that people see. I’d rather observe it from a rocking chair at the library back home, bearing down on an incredibly scripted work of art.

I take a deep breath as I step into the office, prepared to share the story of why I am there. I am welcomed with the sight of a stern face and cold eyes. Sitting down I started my story.

Sirens sound, at 2:00 am. My heart pounds as I look out my apartment window and into the smoke.

I was waiting outside of my school's main doors ready for the school day to start. At last kids start flocking the doors and I follow suit.

1

JEANNE: No, Monica! Too many times, I’ve just been like “hell, could be worse.” I take too much from people: from my mother, my husband, my god-forsaken children. 

Je suis un corbeau avec un plumage noir. J’aime les bijoux. J’aime aller au parc. Je vois une femme avec un collier. Je veux le collier.

Alors, je fondre sur elle et prendre le collier. Je suis un content corbeau!

 My little girl's body ran after wild animals, not caring about if I had to look cool or if I got all sweaty. Now I check my hair before going out and make sure I spray my perfume too many times to hide the smell of sweat or odor.

It’s dark, where I am. Not cold, for cold gives you solace. Not hot, as in a hammer striking molten iron to make a sword. Not warm, pointlessly and deliberately harsh and itchy.

She sat on the steps, enjoying the brisk autumn air. It was the day before Halloween and the smell of cinnamon hung in the air. She knew she’d have to go in soon, but for now life was perfect.

Hand in hand we walked down the path, littered with colorful leaves. A gust of wind swirled the leaves around us. Encompassing us in our own little world. I looked up, the trees bent over us with shades of red, orange and yellow.

The streets were bright and alive, much larger than in previous months. The air, was filled with so much heat you could practically see it.