Young Writers Society

Gold


I want to fly among our stars.

I always thought I was on my own in this. For if a scholar said, "What is your most darling fantasy?" I would say, "To fly among our stars."

And this scholar would smirk, and turn away, and say, "That is absurd."

And so I do not talk about it. If any folks ask my most darling fantasy, thinking to know my mind and soul, I am struck dumb. I say nothing. I talk to nobody.

But today is contrary. Today, I know: I am not on my own. Today, I find Margo.

Margo is standing at a train station today, clad in a black skirt and crimson high-tops, ignoring all by way of an iPod and its buds. Margo has a viridian iris and curly black hair that glows in sunlight slanting through grimy windows.

Margo is dazzling.

I sit in an adjoining chair. Margo is clutching a book, scrutinizing it with a thumbnail against pink lips. It is Foundation by Isaac Asimov.

"Is it good?" I ask. Margo looks down, to my chair.

"Your book," I clarify.

"I think so," Margo says. I would frown if my book was cut short, but Margo grins. "You can borrow it."

Thinking to know this mind and soul, I ask: "What is your most darling fantasy?"

And Margo says, "I want to fly among our stars."


Silver

“What did I do?” My stomach twists and I can’t stop thinking. My hands can’t stop shaking. All I want to do is to curl up into a ball and stop living.

“It wasn’t human,” I say, though I know nobody is around. “It wasn’t human,” I say again, “It was just a blob of—“

My words stop in my throat and I want to throw up. I am lying, and it hurts my mind just as badly as my body hurts. Familiar cramps rack my body and I sit down slowly, hoping blood won’t drip out in clumps of – I can’t think about that. Not again.

You hurt him.

That thought twists back to kill my soul. I saw Baby – no not a baby, just a blob -- wiggling about in ultrasound. I wasn’t going to look -- I didn’t want to look -- but I did. I saw that it was a tiny human, a boy. I saw him twirl about in what almost could pass as lackadaisical bliss. I was so happy.

And I got rid of him anyway.

“Why did I do this?” I ask to nobody.

But I know why. I know. I had no options. Adoption? How could I afford cost of labor? Caring for it? With what support? I couldn’t do it now. And not with that man as a dad… I had to dump that poisonous cobra. I couldn’t trust him. No, I couldn’t trust him. Not with my body and not with my child—

My child.

Our child.

I dig my nails into my palms until blood springs up from my hands.

I told him about our baby. I was so happy at that instant as I told him. But I saw his lips thin and his hands flinch and I was so afraid. That man – that cobra – struck. His hands cut around my throat until I thought that I would faint. I don’t know if I did faint. My mind hurt so much.

It was Baby or him. And I couldn’t pick Baby. I couldn’t pick my poor, poor son. Not without dying.

Now, I wish I had known how painful living was from now on. If I could pick now, I would rot in my coffin happily. That way, I would not hurt so much.

My body throbs and blood drips down and soaks my pants. A cramp rips through my body again. I ball my fists and start to cry. I thought it would turn out okay. An abortion. Wasn’t it going to turn out okay?

If it is okay, why do I hurt so much?

I curl up into a ball and rock back and forth. And in my mind, words from my childhood spring to mind. If I am still, I can almost touch my mom’s soft rosary. My mind starts to calm and I ask if salvation is still within my grasp. I don’t know, but I am willing to try. I sigh, biting my lip. My body stills and a tranquility floods my soul.

Softly, I pray, “Hail Mary—“


Bronze

It’s warm out today so I walk back to our old farm. I follow a solitary road through vacant country, a band of dirt and rocks spanning out toward unknown limits. A monotonous horizon of dying hills rolls by, and among such uniformity I almost miss it—but at first sight I know without a doubt. Wood planks, sprawling across muddy ground as if thrown by uncaring gods. I stoop among brown, dying grass and pick up a board, turning it around in my hands. Scorch marks run along its back, and an inscription--initials cut into wood by a child.

A catch in my throat; I stand up again.

Visions of days from long ago push into my mind and burn across my sight, of spirits who now occupy only ruins of a barn. I look up, towards clouds racing past a falling sun that throws out its last rays.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and my words ring across a hollow world.

And I turn and run, away from ghosts that I know will follow.