Creator - Brianna Pitts CONTENT WARNING: DEATH, SPECIFIC DESCRIPTIONS OF ROADKILL A few years ago I saw a man lying on the side of the road.
My mom pulled her van over and asked the two people standing beside him what was happening. The woman who answered was a doctor. He had a heart attack, he was alive, they’d called the police and an ambulance was on the way. After ensuring everything was okay, my mom kept driving. I had a piano lesson to get to. She was crying. I don’t remember what she said during the drive, but I remember how she said it. With this low, open hopelessness. Lamenting. It made me uneasy, so I started to smile. My body tried to force me to laugh, to ease some of my discomfort, but I wouldn’t let it, because if you laugh at real suffering you’re sick. I didn’t want to be sick. I wanted to be a good person. So I did not laugh, and my mom never saw the smile I couldn’t keep off my face as I stared out of the window in silence. --- I cried when my pets died. Scout, my mom’s calico; Sammy, the German Shepherd my half-brother staked a claim on; Smokey, a stray black cat my family agreed we should have named Shadow. They are the only close family members to have died around me. In that regard, I am lucky, but I am also woefully inexperienced with death. What do I say to the friends whose grandparents have died other than “you can talk to me if you want to”? I can offer no comfort other than my presence, and that hardly feels like enough. Not that I want anyone to die. Though the thought of death does not scare me, I am at least smart enough to recognize that the death of a family member will hurt when it comes. But there is a strange force inside of me that craves experience. To feel everything the world has to offer, no matter how painful, out of a simple desire to know. There’s that famous saying that advises to “write what you know,” but what I know is, frankly, boring. Death, on the other hand, is interesting. Thought provoking. Life-altering. And deeply appealing. --- With driving comes an increasing awareness of roadkill. Squirrels, groundhogs, raccoons, the sorts, whisking by in blurry patches of red and pink and brown. I try not to hit them again. Part of me fears that if I did, some of that pink and red would tangle in my tires and follow me home. That the stench of rot and decay would waft into my car and linger, simmering in the hot summer sun. That I would have to pick out the tendrils with my fingers and throw them into the grass to be pecked away by the sweet little chickadees that twitter so pleasantly outside my window. So I avoid roadkill. --- So rot, ferment, and decompose So all the things can grow Or wallow in a drinkless world And wither on the bough -Cosmo Sheldrake, “Solar Waltz” --- It wasn’t a real blue bird. It was a bus, white with blue stripes and a solid blue bird on the sides. I drove by it for weeks as it sat on the road beside The Park, marveled in the contrast of its blue against the falling autumn leaves. Wondered why it was there. As I wondered, I thought of Into the Wild. If I stepped out of my car, pried open the rusted bus doors with my bare hands, and peeked inside, would I see the body of Chris McCandless, starved to a mere 67 pounds, surrounded by books and empty bags and a rifle? Or maybe I would see the children from Trick ‘r Treat, waterlogged by their drownings, hunting for revenge? Maybe it was a prison bus, carrying prisoners to The Park so they could be brought into the woods and shot. I wanted to look. I knew my theories were wrong, they were outrageous, nothing more than the morbid daydreams of a teenage girl. But as much as I wanted to sate my curiosity, I never did. As long as I never figured out the truth, I could believe that the blue bird was a part of something bigger.
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Creator - Sophia Wang The silence stifles me, endless as the darkness above.
The moon shifts away from the window panes leaving blurry edges on objects that were once so familiar. Shadows dance hauntingly across my wheelchair in the corner. The Barbie princess doll that I fell in love with on a trip years ago, morphs into a monster that preys on my worst fears. She creeps in slowly, almost without notice. Attempting to find the solace of sleep, which seems as if it were a peaceful kingdom, far, far away, I nearly miss the tapping of her heels on the hollow wood. After tossing and turning for a few more minutes, I give up and stare at my ceiling. The patterns on there always varied between fireworks and faces for me. Tonight, they are spiderwebs, ready for me to catch me in their trap. Hi, Stella. Her voice, intrinsically powerful, resonates to my very bones. I stare at her with a glazed fear, chained to my bed. We’ve never met before. But I know it will be a pleasure to get to know you. She leers at me, and I instinctively shrink away. Don’t be scared of me, Stella. I just want to be friends with you. I exhale slowly, trying to get my bearings. The room spins rapidly -- pictures of my first soccer game transform into puddles of blood and crashing metal. “Hi.” I couldn’t see her clearly while I lay in my bed, but I could sense that she was anchored by my feet. Why don’t I help you out there? She snares my feet and yanks, causing a burning sensation to go up my body. I was used to it, of course, but tonight it permeates my nerves with a cruel intensity. “What’s your name?” I ask, my voice tiny and fragile in the air, drifting away in wisps. I don’t really have one. Wanna help me out in picking one? I study her closely, trying to pick out certain characteristics that would pinpoint a name. “What do you like doing?” Not much. But whatever I do, I do it to the extreme. Like once, I went cliff diving in Hawaii with my other friend. The locals told us not to, that the rip currents were too much for even the most experienced. Once we smacked into the water, I started chatting with her. The waves drowned her and she kind of went cuckoo. She tilts her head with the guile of a predator and shrugs nonchalantly. She ended up dead. I reel away in shock, trying to get away from her fiery grip. For that split second, I forget I had no use of my legs. While I suppress a scream, an idea hits me. “I’ll name you Betty, then.” A simple, pure name for a terrifying, powerful demon and I choke the fear down. Betty. She smacks her lips together and puckers them. I love it. So innocent. What do you think of my look? A baby pink cardigan rests on her shoulders, with a turquoise skirt. Betty bats her eyelashes at me, and I thinly veil my disgust. “I love it.” I spit out, and grip my blankets harder. Let’s talk! She caps her lipstick and plops it into a diamond studded handbag that appears to have materialized at her side. Why is your door open? I flick my eyes towards said door. “I didn’t even realize that.” Lifting my covers, I pull myself out of the warm bed, only to crash onto the cool floor. Betty sympathetically looks down at me and coos. You forgot again, didn’t you? A tear slips out and plops onto the cherry wood. I touch it with my finger tip and study how it bounces and returns to its original shape when I tap it harder, seemingly refusing to break. I pulverize it, causing it to splatter out. Finally shattering. “Yes, I forgot.” I abruptly force out, lifting myself up on my forearms. How’s your sister doing? Betty examines her cuticles, blatantly refusing to help me. Thalia. She spends hours in her room, throwing glass objects at my mom when she attempts to coax her out. We gave up yesterday. “Thalia’s just fine, thank you.” I grunt, and grasp the blankets on the bed futilely. Instead, the entirety of it falls to the ground, and me with it. “Ahh!” I scream, an ear piercing sound. No need to be so loud, Stella dear. Betty snatches the Barbie I stared at not so long ago. She moves the legs of the plastic doll and taunts me with it. You’re being ridiculous. “Go away.” I whisper, clutching my hair. What was that? “Go. Away.” I repeat, glaring at her. Are you telling me to go away? When you can’t even go to the bathroom by yourself? Betty cackles, throwing her head up with a snap. Oh, silly, silly, silly Stella. “GO AWAY!” I roar, pushing myself onto the bed. Tears cover my field of vision as I thrash the blankets over and over again, simultaneously, images appear of Thalia babbling “silly, silly, silly Stella” as a toddler, my mother asking me if I wanted to come see my teammates at their championship soccer tournament, and the Barbie donning a pair of pink sparkly heels singing “everything’s fantastic when you’re made of plastic.” The images spin throughout the room, encouraging Betty’s maniacal laughter. I hurl the Barbie at Betty, fueled by the anger flowing through me. Betty disappears in a puff of smoke, leaving behind only the lipstick in the exact same shade as the Barbie’s locked smile. Her voice sings distantly; hauntingly. Everything’s fantastic when you’re made of plastic. |
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