One Crayon Short a Rainbow

she scrubbed the crayon wax into the paper
she let a jagged line of purple fill in the page
and inside her head she felt a sort of anger
as though someone else were adamantly telling her it was the wrong color to use.
the emotion got stronger and she stilled the crayon,
all she felt was a hot breeze stream through the window screen
she continued scribbling and coloring in the entire page
the anger got louder
like a building wave
it sounded more and more like a bottled rush of shouting banging in her head
she scrubbed harder and the shouter grew louder and louder till she dropped the crayon to clap her hands over her head like she wanted to close out the boundless voice of rage that ran static through her head, and as slowly it died out, she hummed to herself as she continued drawing, to keep the anger from returning and from swallowing herself again.

All The Wrong Colors

The grass was red, flaming and hot. It tickled people's ankles and if you got too close, smudges of soot and red welts spread up your leg. The sky was purple; drippy and thick. Little crumbs of the sky smeared down on the sidewalk and sizzled on the grass. The tree was blue, and it swayed its trunk far over the horizon and seemed to wilt over the grass. I only had three colors in my crayon box. My friends told me it was wrong, my teacher said it was "interesting" and my mom bought me a new box of crayons. But it was too late. The colors had changed and no one could turn them back.

Cherry Lip Gloss

I sighed as the teacher's voice drifted soothingly over my head and skimmed across my earlobes. Staring at a lip gloss smear on my desk, I used my finger tips to smudge away the gloss into a perfect heart. I continued to slice through the edges and slowly the silhouette of a girl's face and hair appeared. The face and hair shrunk with more soft rubbing and looked more boy like, until I was left surprised to find the smudge left to nothing more than a light trace of red cherry lip gloss on my fingers.

A Wooden Floor

The wood relfected soft in the dark; it was shiny, and smooth against her skin. Running and then leap into the air with her skirts swishing up her legs. Wood slaps against the balls of her feet, spinning and spinning in the center. The dark ceiling swirling above her arched neck and her leg tucks up into her final twist. Silent, except skin against wood. Heart beat, breathe, collapse against the cool floor, flat and hard. Legs and arms jumbled; laying on the smooth glossy surface. And the dark continues.

Remembered Air

My arms are cold, covered with water droplets that stand out on my arm rather than one sleek coat. My clothes cling to me and I swing into the sprinkler's spray. The water drenches me with laughter; you cannot stop shrieking as cold sprays drench you to the skin. I stretch out my arms, and try to remember the air around me; to keep its memory on my skin. I swing up, and stick my feet into the cloud of water left behind by the sprinkler's tail. I swing back, and see its lovely arch. And I swing back down on wet air.

The Piano Recital

The air smelled of decay and rotting saliva. Many of the corpses could not keep their mouths shut and drooled pools of spit beneath their chairs. She walked up the rows and sat at the bench. Yellow worms wiggled between her toes and her useless joints sung a lifeless arm to the keys. It was a horrible sound. The sound that kills men's souls in the pit of their stomach, the sound that chokes a baby's gurgle, the sound that draws blood from wounds. She finished the last notes; her fingers slipping and grasping at the keys like a man's last breath. Her purple marked hand left her wrist and let dark blood seep into the keys and down to the floor, making the pedals slippery with blood's copper shine. The corpses didn't clap. They never did. Drool dripped, blood flowed, and the living wept.