Scout E.S. in the Shadows

  The second one was placed on my path home. The dirt road was crowded with leaves and weeds, and this time it was a bright yellow bird that was placed perfectly on its side. A piece of paper was tied around its neck. I didn’t want to read it, but I was too afraid of what could happen if I wasn’t aware of it. After all, no one fears the dark, they fear what could be in it. I pulled the string delicately away from its hollow body. The beige cutout fell into the bushes, and I scrambled to grab it. I brought it close to my face, savoring the moment of mystery. It read: One strike left. Leave your Verse . They knew I wouldn’t listen. Even as the bird’s blinding feathers shuffled through the wind and my shoes sunk in the mud, I was grounded. Even as the clouds wept for me, my eyes saw so clearly ahead. I walked through the empty trails that were so little visited as the Hands ran home to bend over and complete mundane work. I wondered; did they ever feel the dirt under them instead of c

  Their images were amusing. I was as amused as a person as I could be; I was brain-dead from the countless hours watching and consuming mindless content. The only thing I could afford to waste was my time, and that I would do. Each second, minute, and hour, I would stare into the abyss of the brightened screens and only notice the reflection that sat disappointed in its existence. It never felt like it was me who stared back, but rather a grayed version exhausted from its self-imprisonment into the virtual world. I avoid my gaze until the screen in front of me becomes a detail; the main event is the aspects of the atmosphere that can never keep me entertained. Again, the screen calls me back in; again, I have no control. As I watch my surroundings move, the screen lures my eyes back. Would I rather test the possibility of happiness knowing that I will risk losing it?                I prefer to choose my sadness than to lose my happiness.                I watch; my eyes roll back and f

  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.             The Corridors were always darkened when the Sun came out. It was a trick of the mind; the contrast

  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