Sophie Berberich: "Fool's Gold"

The sun washes everyone and everything in a soft orange hue, taking the edge off all sharp edges. Everyone and everything appeared a little warmer… a little kinder.

I look down at the yellow material barely covering my slightly browned skin. When I woke up this morning to the beating sun, I knew that it was the perfect day to wear this dress. This little sundress with the swirling shades of yellow, and the tiny white flowers meticulously stitched among the soft seams.

As the heat of it’s soothing embrace soaks into my aged skin, it dawns on me just how much I relish it’s company. His presence makes it a little harder to accept the fact that I won’t be on this earth for much longer.

It’s the kind of yellow that fills my mind with memories of warm days spent basking in a humble sort of heat. I’m so happy that the sun finally decided to show his face again.

I used to spend days dwelling on how cold and unforgiving this earth can be, but now, as I stand outside looking at its beauty, I can’t help but want to turn back time and slap myself across the face.

Breathe in, breathe out. I inhale the rich sweetness of the fresh spring air. As I fill my lungs with its scent, a feeling of new beginnings sweeps throughout my body. I’d decided earlier that today was a good day to do without shoes, and I plunge my toes into the soft green grass. I am glad I hadn’t worn shoes.

I almost wish it were still cold out. If my ancient bones were still rattling beneath my leathery skin, maybe then I would welcome the inevitable movement of time. Maybe then, it would be easier to say goodbye. Then, I am almost certain, I would welcome death. But of course, here is the sun, that bright orange ball hanging in the sky that I have always loved so dearly. It has grown up with me; watched me as I fell from my new bicycle and marred my skin on the tough asphalt. Watched me as I fell in love, hard and fast with a young naive heart that believed it was indestructible. And now, is watching me as I am falling closer and closer to the end of it all.

If I look closely, I can see tiny flowers springing up from the earth in little specks of baby blue and lilac. A soft breeze whistles through my dress, sending it from my legs and into the open air. The shades of yellow intermingle with the wind, and I relish the heat against my skin. Invisible strings pull at the corners of my lips, and my mind is lulled with quiet thoughts of tiny, meaningless nothings.

I enter the park, and suddenly, I feel out of place. As I drag my heavy feet across the paved walkway, I gaze longingly at this small group of children, playing in a bed of grass by the swingset. I don’t understand how this could be, but the grass, touched by their tiny toes, seems a little more vibrant than the surrounding patches. Their sporadic squeals of childlike innocence and joy floats in the air, and makes my bones feel a little less fragile. I offer a weak smile as I pass, the strongest thing I could muster, but they don’t notice my old decrepit body, and if they did, they probably wouldn’t glance twice. Why did I even think that I could mean anything to them? Or anyone for that matter.

Suddenly, I notice a dark figure pierce through the perfect spring setting. It was hard to look away from him; his weary dark body stood in stark contrast against his youthful surroundings. A feeling of uneasiness sweeps throughout my body as I see each little line deeply engraved into his leathered skin. The air suddenly feels thick and heavy, and I struggle to fill my lungs with anything at all. My stomach sinks to the deepest recesses of my body. My young, drawn eyes meet his, and they lock for a brief second, before they shift towards the sidewalk once more.
Gone. Just like that, he has passed. His eyes linger in my mind, haunting every corner. I felt as if those expired eyes, that had burrowed themselves so deep into his decaying skin, spoke to me in a way that escapes words. They held secrets, memories that would never be brought to the light. The air no longer feels fresh and youthful, instead a stench of rotten, decaying fruit hangs thick around me. A chill rushes up my spine, gently touching each bone in my body, and I feel as if his wise, old eyes are still watching me.

I notice a young girl, sitting on a browned bench that closely resembled the shade of her skin. She had on this yellow dress; the brightest yellow I have ever seen. The colors seemed to leap out from the fabric, and fill the air with a warm, comforting aura. Suddenly, her eyes blankly look toward me, and just as quickly turn away. Of course. Why would young pretty eyes care to look at such a grotesque form of a being. As I pass her by, I whisper goodbye. Not just to her, but to all of my surroundings that I will not open my eyes to see another day. To the children playing in that vibrant green grass, who have no inkling of death. To the birds singing their sweet song, filling the air with a comfort that I hate to leave. To the sun, that has been one of the only constants yet has flown before my eyes like a dream. If only they could grasp the concept that soon, their skin will be aged like mine, and they too will have to accept the quickening pace of time.

Suddenly, this dress is not warm enough.

Tyler Johnston: "A Final Whisper"

The first thing I noticed was the cold-no it was something unnatural. Not a type of chill that made you shiver or left your breath hanging in the air; it was something that didn’t feel like it came without consequence. I couldn’t pinpoint the words with which to describe the feeling, it felt as if the adjectives necessary were at the edges of my mind, tantalizingly close to being uncovered.

I looked down at my feet and saw that I was wearing my favorite sunshine-yellow sneakers that had kept me company on those tiresome school days; when nothing seemed to go right those sneakers were a miniature sun in my dreary world. That had been years ago; they were lost now, abandoned in the back of some closet; yet the firmness of the shoes was brand new was lost in this abyss, they were almost an extension of my feet, and seemed to mold themselves around me effortlessly.

Now, beyond my feet, there was a ceaseless expanse of nothingness. My feet stayed firmly planted before I got the confidence to carefully set my foot down into space ahead of me. It held, and when that worked I took another step. Then another. I continued to travel through this dark space, unaware of where I was or how I had gotten here. This had to be a dream of sorts, otherwise, I would be falling to my doom, right?

    I stopped looking down at my feet, still taking care to lightly bring my foot down with each step. As I looked up I saw an old hickory table a ways away that appeared to be old and worn down, but still usable and a feeling that it belonged where it was. There, at the side of the table sat a figure with its back turned to me, and somehow the very reality around them was warped to make the person unrecognizable. As I approached, I heard a voice inside my head, my voice.

    “Take a seat, dear.”

    There was another chair next to them, and as I finally got close, I pulled the chair out and took my place next to them. And the chills were gone. I felt a type of warmness and a smile spread across my face. I closed my eyes and relished in the feeling of warmth that spread throughout my body. It wasn’t warm like a temperature, but warm like whenever your friend decides to pull you into a big bear hug because you just looked a little down. Warm not with temperature, but with love.

    “Take as much time as you need. You’re in control here sweetheart.”

    Sweetheart. I couldn’t remember a single time whenever that pet name had been used to address me, but images began to flash as if a slideshow were playing in my mind. I saw my mother walking into our house, and I saw the scream escape her lips, yet heard nothing. That image then disappeared, replaced with a hospital urgently wheeling some unresponsive soul through the halls. I could tell they were shouting, but again I heard no sound. The scene before me faded out only to be a room in the same hospital. It was nighttime and the moon was basking light across a young woman’s face. She seemed somehow familiar, and I could almost remember her name. but the image was gone before I could put my finger on it. Belatedly I realized that I was still in this darkness sitting next to someone at an old hickory table.

    I asked the person if I could go home, but my voice hitched in the middle of the sentence. The rest of my words were reduced to sobs. I usually wasn’t one for tears, yet it didn’t feel bad to cry here. Without saying a word the person next to me made me feel like I could cry for eternity in this void. I might have if I didn’t feel slender hands touch my shoulder to comfort me. Without flinching at the sudden physical contact, I moved in and wrapped my arms around their body. I cried into their shoulder because here, at this old table in the middle of nowhere, I knew what this place meant for me. I thought of my past, and it was nice to recollect my memories. Eventually, I began to calm down and the tears soon stopped flowing. I raised my head to rest on their shoulder.
   
“Claire? Are you ready to go now?”

    I stared down at the ground, thinking about whether or not I was ready. It was only until I fixated myself on a part of them that was left untouched by the warped space around them that I felt confident in my answer.
   
    “...yes.”

    The hug tightened a bit as they moved their mouth near my ear to whisper to me.

    “I am so, so very proud of you.”

    The last image in my mind before I departed, was two pairs of sunshine yellow shoes standing next to each other.

Faith Rodriguez: "The Darkness That Surrounds"

I could feel him above me, watching and waiting, ready to unleash his acid rain the second I made a mistake. It was in that moment that I noticed the darkness surrounding, heavy black smoke swirling in tendrils. It invaded my vision, my lungs, my soul... It was toxic. Yet, I continued trying to please the cloud even though I knew my only chance at sunlight was the release of the precipitation. The rain would fall in tiny drops, letting out small streams of sunlight, and for a moment I could almost see my dad. But then a new darkness would fill the holes and he'd be gone again. I just wanted the cloud to disperse and let me have the person I so desperately longed for.

The first drop touched my shoulder and seared my skin. I winced, dropping the power drill that I had previously clutched tightly in my hand. I was soaked before the tool even hit the ground. The water burned and I desperately clawed at my skin, attempting to diminish the pain. A little precipitation of my own dripped down my cheeks and mixed with the toxic substance, staining my face in the ugliest way.
Dry it up, the cloud bellowed. Pick it up and start over.
The night went on that way. There would be small moments where my dad— the real one— would seep through and tell me it was okay. It was rare and it took the emptying of the precipitation, but he was there and that’s why I continued on.
When I took a shower that night, acid burns littered my skin. They were burns that were visible to my eyes only. I knew they weren’t really there and they were merely impressions of his words, but the gentle water of the shower stung nonetheless.
I wore long sleeves and pants to bed that night, avoiding any glimpse of the impressions. Once they were gone, more would take their place.
The painful cycle never ended.
Days bled into years of the torturous cloud as my body became scarred and unrecognizable to myself. My only escape was a mistake. A mistake that had been made by someone else that summer that had inevitably freed me from my own personal hell and sent me into another. I welcomed the new hell, with its walls of fire and heat. At least it wasn’t that damned rain.
I still carry the scars on my skin and reflect on them frequently. The cloud hangs over my head, whispering mistakes I’ve made when I’m alone in bed at night. But the cloud isn’t my father anymore.
It is an attachment I can’t rid myself of and I don’t dare let it rain down on anyone else. How could I subject them to something so awful? It is a cloud of things I hate about myself and it touches every part of me. It curls around my legs and tangles itself in my hair. It leaves scorch marks across my stomach and invades my lungs, filling them to the brim with its poison.
The moment I was touched by the acid rain, I consumed the darkness. The cloud follows me wherever I go and reminds me of things I cannot change. It leaves chaos and destruction in its wake as it takes over who I am.
The cloud has become something far worse than my father.
It’s me.

Abby Rosignol: "Just Breathe"

My cheek stung. My nervous habit getting the best of me as I gnawed away at the soft tissue of my lip as I got closer to the next step of my life. Did I look ok? Did I forget my money? Lord I hope I remembered deodorant! I climbed those concrete steps praying that I didn't trip. As I reluctantly inched my way to the school building thoughts were whirling around my brain. Keep your head up, you need to look confident. Should I smile? No, of course not that’s weird. I wrap my hand around the cool metal handle of the door and pull. Just breathe.

…

Sweat beads along my hairline as I stare into the blinding light. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. My feet feel heavy on the wooden stage, like I could fall through at any moment. Honestly, I would prefer that. I look into the darkness in front of me trying to focus on something, anything to make me look a little less like a deer in headlights. Her words pound into me. A stone hammer coated with barbs ripping into the deepest inches of my being. You’re fine, just breathe. In and out. Her frustration is undeniable, as it rolls uncontrollably across her lips. I’m sorry. I’m trying! I don’t know how to fix it. It’s just me alone in front of a one person firing squad. If you thought I couldn't do it, why am I here?  I want to shrink inside myself, to fade away like a shadow in the sunlight, but I can't. I have to stand there and brace it. Do better. Show her that you are better. You are better. Just breathe. Chin up.

…

“P for potential” was branded across my chest. Enslaved to my own mind, I work tirelessly for others.  My mouth waters for the taste of approval. Every move, every breath was screaming for recognition. It’s not working. I’m not loud enough. Why can’t I get this? I need to show them. They need to see. Finally, a compliment. Pride rushes through me, but leaves as swiftly as it enters. I need more. Chains were wrapped around my heart and my head, that only one key could unlock. It never occurred to me that it was in my back pocket all along. I just needed to find it. I needed their acceptance, so I could... just breathe.

…

I slide my palms down the side of my leggings attempting to dry them, but the sweat returns seconds later. My foot taps vigorously on the floor , while my teeth chew away at my inner cheek. I can do this. You know what you are doing. I force my hand to shut my binder, to shield my eyes from the endless notes; they can’t help me now. I close my eyes and let my mind fall willingly under my thought’s curses. Why do you do this to yourself? What joy is there? You just seem miserable.As I turn their words over in my head, they soon start to become mine. Why do I do this? I know the answer, but why is it so hard to believe? It makes me happy. Except, it doesn't. Why? A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I reach to my back pocket and run my fingers along the rough edges of the long desired key. The doors open and it’s time. I walk into the room I’d been dreading for weeks, but I felt nothing by utter content. I look up at the table, suddenly very aware of the multiple pairs of eyes, glowing with intending judgement. Do this for you. Just breathe. Chin up. Smile.

 

Alexis Snow: "Silver and Gold"

The first time I ever saw my father cry was when I was seven years old. He was on a large screen, suspended from a series of metal poles. Me and thousands of other people formed a sea of blue, grey, and silver encasing a field of green. A roaring ocean of clapping hands and ringing cowbells. I was standing on my seat, peering up at the screen, my heart beating loud with pride. I had clapped until my little hands bore red. It was a dream. My daddy was my hero. I could see his face in perfect focus; the shadow of the hair on his face, his verdant eyes, his crooked-lip smile. The hard, bright white lights caught the top of his bald head as he bowed to receive his medal. As his face appeared again, I could tell by the swelling around his eyes that he had been crying and was about to yet.

That sight, the beholdment of that moment, watching my father accomplish something that was a lifelong goal, pushed my heart into my throat. That was my father. My father. He had spent the last 7 years of his life coaching and leading, leading and coaching to that very moment. Doing something he truly loved, and doing it until it led him to one of the things in his life he would forever be proud of. I knew it was something he loved, too. I could see it in his smile every day when he would come home. I could sense it in his arms as I’d jump into them under the stadium lights after another win.

The lights caught his wedding ring as he pushed his glasses up. That wedding ring had always seemed to demand attention. I used to always tell him, “Daddy, I like silver better. Why did mommy want gold?”

He would always reply, “Loo, I picked gold. I like it.” There was something about the way he said that. Reassuring, but tired. He always did do his best to make my mother out to be stable and healthy. But it was making him tired.
    

The second time I saw my father cry was two months after my mother got arrested. It was the first time he entered the house I had lived in for a year alone with her. It was his house, the house he had bought with his own money. He had put so much work, so much love into that house.

When we bought it, the house had bright, white siding. It gleamed and glowed from the street corner. It had lush, plump bushes by the side, and vibrant tulips growing along the house’s foundation. The interior of the house was old, but beautiful. Antique. Cream-colored wallpaper with flecks of gold in it. Varnished oak wood pillars.

When he returned to the house for the first time since he’d left, he was so taken aback he had to take breaks in between rooms. The siding had turned grey, and the bushes began to take over the side of the house as if they were going to eat it whole. The wallpaper had been stained with fluids, and the varnished wood had been chipped and peeled. The carpets were destroyed and items were overflowing from closets and hallways.

As I followed him through the house, he kept muttering, “Oh, my god.”  I felt ashamed. I also felt frightened of him. My mother had told me horrible, terrible things about him and I knew no better than to believe her. He stopped at one of the wooden columns and put his hand on it as if he was trying to steady himself. His wedding ring clunked against the wood and it made me wonder for the first time why he was still wearing it. Why did he still remain loyal after everything?

He did not do anything rash like I was afraid of. Instead, he turned to me and my heart crumbled when I saw the tears in his eyes. He opened his mouth slowly.  “I’m so sorry, Lex. God, why did I leave you here? Why did we leave her here?” He turned and looked at my brother who was and had been silent the whole time.
I let out a strangled sob and ran up to hug him and just kept saying, “It’s okay dad.” Over and over it felt like. Following that day, I never wanted to see my father cry again.
  

The last time I saw my father cry was at his wedding. I say this is the last time because I haven’t seen him cry since. I was standing as a maid of honor in a lovely nest of trees and sunshine. My father was looking down the concrete path, littered with streaks of glittering sunlight. He was waiting for his bride for the second time around. And, there she was, walking in slow strides in a long, almost blinding white gown. As soon as my father’s eyes reached her, his eyes filled with tears. He smiled that crooked smile and let go. That was the most I had ever seen him cry. And I liked it that way. She reached the altar and they exchanged their vows, shedding yet another tear between each word. After the wedding, I held my father’s hand as we walked back down the aisle. As I looked at our intertwined fingers, I swallowed a lump in my throat and smiled warmly as I saw a beautiful wedding band of brushed silver.