Bravery
I lay on my back, gazing up at the sky above me, a clear aquamarine, disturbed only by small wisps of white, scattered here and there as if the master of the sky had tossed...
Issue: <span>January/February 2016</span>
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I lay on my back, gazing up at the sky above me, a clear aquamarine, disturbed only by small wisps of white, scattered here and there as if the master of the sky had tossed flower petals over his shoulder to give flair to the expanse of endless blue. When I closed my eyes, the soft dappled butter of sunlight oozed over my eyelids, filling me up to the brim with the honey-like warmth.
Turn Left at the Cow, by Lisa Bullard;
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt: New York,
2013; $16.99
When I read this book, I realized right away how it got its name. In the first part of the book, when the main character, Travis, is describing the setting of the book and how rural it is, he says, “I stared out the window, wondering how this place could qualify as a state. How would GPS even work?
Elice was the kind of village that was surrounded by thick and tall trees. The people of Elice were both frightened and relieved that they were surrounded by forest. Predators could come in from all angles; on the other hand, anyone who tried to find them would get lost. This meant that they were lonely. They were so lonely, in fact, that they were desperate for companionship.
Past the field
Through the briar
By the breaths of people lingering in the light
Past the smoke
Into the mill
Creeping closer
With the stealth of a cat
Up the stairs
And onto the windowsill
Like a hawk in its nest
A pencil and paper
And a breathtaking view
With an idea
And new perspectives
She put the pencil to the paper
And as though the paper was a ballroom
And the pencil a dancer
She wrote.
Veronica Caisse, age ten, stood in front of the mirror, her arms out to the sides. “What do you think?” she asked her cat, Aphrodite, turning so she could see the full extent of her outfit. Aphrodite gave a tiny, indifferent meow.
“Thank you!” Veronica told her. “I do have good fashion sense, don’t I?” She admired herself again.
When I feel peace,
it’s like my whole body
is on fire,
with a dim,
yet warm glow.
Soft,
like moonlight,
peace creeps in my open window,
sunlight glows.
Somewhere,
A mountain stream
rushes down a cliff.
A pool at the bottom
sits there,
unbroken,
Like glass.
Somewhere,
in a field
grass grows,
velvet soft,
doves coo,
sweetly.
Somewhere,
so peaceful.
An old minivan slowly grumbled its way up the ugly, concrete driveway, passing an old clump of purple-brown wisteria vines, rumbling by a dingy hedge shielding the moldy garbage can, full of old holes where squirrels and raccoons had once tried to nibble their way in to eat the trash.
“Well, here we are!” said a woman in a falsely cheerful voice, dragging an old, moth-eaten suitcase.
I bend over and finger my key chain, determined to escape into the world of Little Miss Piggy and Mini Kermit the Frog. I try to ignore the teasing around me. I try to ignore Andrea, who is seated across from me, arms over her head, yelling at them to stop. I try to ignore the bus driver, who isn’t paying attention at all. The best thing I can do is ignore, I think.
I sit here, and I don’t notice the dirty dishes, left lying
in the sink
I don’t stare at the holes in the wall, strange and unexplained
I don’t ponder the fishbowl, tipped over on the floor,
or the color the light makes as it bounces off the
broken mirror
I do not wonder about the skittering in the attic,
And I don’t think about the ceiling tiles,
slowly chipping down, and gathering in th...
I don’t like my parents. Actually, that’s not true. I love my parents, but they are so stressful. Everything has to be a fight. They fight over who is driving me to baseball practice. They fight over who gets to spend the weekend with me. Like two days ago I missed my baseball game because they were fighting over the mortgage. I don’t know what the mortgage is, but it sounds important.