Scout E.S. in the Shadows

  The bird was the first warning. The small puddle surrounding its body stayed untouched during the storm. Its feathers lay flat and well-kempt against its frame as its stiff legs pointed to the sky. Even in its last moments, it desired the freedom of the winds and the strength of flight. Its eyes stayed open, watching us walk around it on gloomy days and gloomy evenings. We didn’t have the soul to remove it; warnings often meant more when they stared you in the face.             Eventually, its wings became blackened by the clouds, its legs limp and pointing in whatever direction the wind desired, and its eyes finally closed. Only then did the Sun come out. That was the last time it clouded my sight; what the clouds couldn’t erase, the Sun protected. Even the bird couldn’t escape its fate, so what chance did I have without any wings? After all, the Sun never shined on me.         ...

  Sit and wait. Sit still, sit quietly, sit obediently. Sit until you forget the feeling of your legs touching the ground. Until you forget the purpose of your misery. Until you forget why you listen to droning lessons. Why satisfy those undeserving? Why wait for the world to recognize you? Why wait to recognize the world? Stand and wait. Stand stiff, stand strong, stand uselessly. Stand because you have a duty to the world. A duty to the people without power. A duty to the land without strength. A duty to the government without purpose. Without you, they fall. Without you, they disappear. But until then, you shall sit.

“I’m not sure.” The words echoed in my mind well after they were spoken, free from the clutter that gave weight or value to my thoughts. I hadn’t heard the question, but I knew the answer was buried somewhere, shoved in a closet with my dirty clothes, begging to be remembered. My knowledge became dormant and stiff, stinking the conscience so easily drowned by a perfect appearance. “Are you listening to me? What’s the answer?” The curved lines of a surprisingly perfect drawing connected as I glanced up at the teacher. At least a dozen people were raising their hands, but she had chosen me. After all, one silent person is more significant than a thousand laughs to a comedian. The demand for perfection and absolute attention controls even those so far in their life and careers; I can’t dare be the one to question that impartiality. What is identity? the board read. How dare she ask a question she doesn’t have the answer for? I watch her pretend to be content every class, preten...

  His absent eyes scanned the room, flinching at the soft lights of the lamps. The smell of expensive cologne draped a humorous blanket over the reek of alcohol and his disoriented demeanor. I watched him sit on the couch, familiar with the comfort of its sinking nature. “Is it cozy? The couch?” I asked quietly, avoiding his gaze. He nodded.   My father never drank or took drugs, but the weight of a 16-hour workday had a similar effect on his mental awareness. I would see his shadow on late nights when we both should have been asleep, and he would be waiting for my silhouette in the hallway. The outlandish stories that we both knew I didn’t believe were solace from the parallel lives we had in the day. We traveled in lines so similar but never overlapping, struggling on the same spectrum of different universes. “I was at the mine today, Lyra,” he would say under his breath. “Really?” I would whisper back with a slight giggle. I knew that collared shirts weren’t...

               A deer with two strong antlers that lead before its eyes, seeing with distance and never close enough to touch with its own fur. Headstrong, chosen not from strength, but fear. What is soft enough to feel its true skin is not worthy of hatred, yet too close for friendship. It runs free from the challenges of wilderness, into roads, and through forest trails. When the night comes, it remembers the mellow colors of the night. The dark blues and gray sky rest the antlers from defense and the eyes take control. What can the antlers see of the beauty of the moon, it asks itself. Nothing, for the shine of the crescent over this world, can only be seen through the two eyes so little used. And as they look to the sky, the wonder of the day leaves from the comfort of the night’s beauty. Its hooves relax and it walks down the rough gravel roads, unaware of its placement in the world it must share. The moon and the stars yell for it to admir...

         Mercy wasn’t an emotion I enjoyed feeling. Why did others deserve something that was never given to me? But alas, I found myself making the same mistake as I had done years ago, allowing someone to live past the time they deserve. The morning rain came and washed the houses and the windows that I had stood in. New York’s showers gave me a sense that the blood spilled was gone, dripping away into the sewers, even for only a day. Yet this rainy day wouldn’t be bright as the others, and I would be as sour as all the other pedestrians trudging to their offices. Pools of contaminated water reflected my dry demeanor, the sidewalks questioning the shift of my attitude. I owe you nothing, I thought, as the cold puddles soaked my socks. Maybe they needed at least one person to appreciate their efforts, missing the gratitude of the forests and plants they shed sustenance on far away. The rain was the only thing that reminded city-dwellers of nature’s strength, an...

       The Ritz showered mercy on me today. The clouded window my transparent complexion peered into did not boast a couple or a family. The ragged clothes and wearing couch held an air of restlessness, evidence of many that visit and none who stay. I could sympathize with the dweller of this room, but I must only observe their final night. It neared midnight, but a person will work tirelessly, unbeknownst how close the end may be and how pointless their toil is. They never enjoy themselves before their souls rise; chasing a dream is more valuable than enjoying a nightmare. Yet whether I peered into a Manhattan penthouse or the many tenants of this creaking apartment complex, no one would be content with what they have. The chase is so surreal; it pleases you past what you receive from it. The idea of improvement is not for happiness, but rather self-importance.             The creaking red wooden door peeling ...