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tripped over her, but Honeygirl paid no mind. She looked at the stairs and knew they could kill. Those stairs could breathe and toss and heave and one day Genesis would find himself with his head bent back between his feet. He’d be just like those soldiers that the legendary Great King with the unpronounceable name murdered to unify Hawaiki. Only Genesis would fall, because only he couldn’t tell the difference between alive and dead. And those soldiers were dead, long, long dead. Their skulls were pebbles in the river being danced on by the fat feet of little children. It was the one bit of history Honeygirl remembered from all her wasted days at various groups of crumbling concrete buildings everyone told her were called schools. Now Genesis was scaring people by brushing against their feet, in that water with the bloodiest story to tell in all the islands. To them he could’ve seemed like a snake, or a shark, or some poisonous fish. What would those illogical people know about the kinds of animals that lived on Maui? They were only here for the fantasy and adventure, her father said. The rules of civilization didn’t apply. Mothers were pulling their crying children out of the pool. Families were leaving. The sun-hat lady ran up the muddy bank, slipped, stained the back of her bleachedwhite shorts brown. Good-riddance. Genesis popped out of the water. He watched the people hurry up the sidewalk, a perplexed look on his face. “Genesis,” said Honeygirl. He stepped out of the water and shook out the thick, curling locks of his hair. It was too long; the tips of it were brushing his bony shoulders. At least now it somewhat hid the ugly scar above his left eyebrow. He was a small kid 120

2009-10 Parallax  

Idyllwild Arts Academy Student Literature/Art Magazine 2009-10