"RECLAMATION"
copyright 2006 by MATT MAXWELL
Escapism
The broken light sparked against the floor, keeping time for a violin practice. The child tore past all sound, tore a streak through the underbrush by the decrepit house. His pounding steps left a vertical wake of dust and sizzling energy. The weeds waved behind him, struggling to follow. Red-checkered curtains fell against the soiled windows, and he knew it was time for dinner. He tied a knot in a weed, then tied the next one to it, and the next to that one, and the next and the next and the next until there was a tuft big enough for God to notice. Scratchy strains of "We Are the Champions" struggled from his sister's violin on the front porch.
The child thought it was blasphemous. He hated her. He hated dinner and curtains meant to be tablecloths. He stood and went inside the house, keeping his eyes on the linoleum while she kept her nose pointed at the ceiling. He returned with a broomstick and a newspaper rolled up into a cone shape. He put the newspaper on the end of the broom and raced around his cluster of tumbleweeds in circles.
He ran so fast that his breath came and went in sharp gasps, like the sparks from the broken light inside. He doubled over, and the neck of the broom supported him. His legs experienced spasms even after they'd lifted from the ground. The violin's music softened into comfortingly hollow notes, and the smell of cotton candy blossomed into his nose. The merry-go-round spun smoothly, faster than he could ever run. It lifted him up to the sky, where the weeds tied on top pierced open the child's way to God. Looking down, he saw hatred trickling from his heels and leaving red spots over his dry, dusty world.
Copyright 2006 by Samantha Enns
Samantha writes:
