One Two Three
Like clockwork, the sun reached the highest point in the sky. Its yellow light illuminated the clearing I was in like always and now it was time to wait for someone to try and claim their right as ruler. The ambience of wind blowing the leaves and long grass was soon drowned out by an ever-loudening discord of cheers, instruments, and the labored breath of a horse. The first to come in the clearing were flag bearers wearing facades of delight accompanied by overenthusiastic instrument players. The next to enter was an entourage of women in varying colors and varying states of dress. Following the women, four men, sturdy and tall like the mountains they were raised, stomped in. Their faces and bodies bore the marks of abuse; missing ears, filled noses, wayward eyes, white gashes streaking their dark bodies like the white in granite.
And then, the main jester himself made his grand appearance. Regal, gilded armor sculptured in an attempt to mimic Greek statues was warped around a stout, bloated mass of hubris. Even his horse, a powerful individual of its own right, strained to raise its legs under the immense weight of his ego. He held his hands out and the procession stopped all together.
He snapped his fingers and he was hoisted off of his horse and placed on his feet, his head being level with the valley in his horse’s back. He turned to address the woman, throwing his hands up like a drunken bird and blabbering guttural nonsense.
Despite seeing himself as an elegant phoenix, I saw him for what he was: a weak willed, fat beast. Rather than lead, power would corrupt him in body and mind. With all the riches at his fingertips, he would gorge and gorge and gorge until his belly dragged like a cape and the furls of fat on his neck sired piglets.
Crushed beneath his weight.
The sausages he called fingers attempted to wrest me from my sheath but I would not allow myself to budge. The dry air churned into a humid concoction of the ragged breath from the oaf who finally had to put effort into something and the worried sweat of the men who wondered what cruelty would be inflicted upon them. The instrument players and flag bearers shared timid glances, neither group wanting to speak to cheer for their master in fear of a swift death. The women put on masks of their own as they tried to encourage him as much as they could, singing his praises in an attempt to establish who the main harlot would be. Shortly after trying to move me, he began clawing towards his chest. Stubby limbs not accustomed to moving much struggled to reach higher up and remove his chestplate.
He thrashed and thrashed but could not free his chest to breath and I watch the final, rancid breath clamber out of his chest and disappear into nothing, leaving a useless mass of putrid fat slacked in sweat and coated in enough wealth to pay off a kingdom’s worth of knights.
The companies looked amongst themselves, at the others, and then at the body. The silence was broken by a loud cry as everyone rushed to loot the corpse. The instrument players and flag bearers ditched their instruments and flags; they were the first to grab treasures. They worked in unison to rip the gauntlets off both arms, not bothering to remove the hands jammed into their mold. Just as quickly as they descended on the corpse, they disappeared into the thick forest to later burn the meat for fuel and melt the gauntlets to set themselves for life.
The women swooped onto the corpse like harpies, but the men dispatched them with single blows to the head that cracked them like eggs. The men shared glances amongst themselves before they nodded and each grabbed a limb; two grabbed the legs and the other two grabbed the upper arms. Tendons and ligaments snapped as the bones were loosened from their sockets and each of the men ended up with their own limb.
The two who had the smaller portions looked at the limbless body. One of them grabbed the body by its head and one barked something before the body could land.
The body landed on its head, the sound of his neck barely audible under the sound of his body crashing down. The man who barked roared in delight and the other man hissed, stomping his foot in frustration. Each got their final piece: the barker got the main body and the other got the head. The four men nodded their heads and went their separate ways. Fancying himself a helmet, the man with the head removed the corpse’s head, tossing it to the horse.
The horse glanced down at the head, breath finally calming from a lifetime of imitating Atlas. Its nostrils flared and it started walking. In one final lash to the jester who thought himself king, his horse stomped the head in before it continued walking deeper and deeper into the forest. Once the stomping of hooves left, a new sound filled the air. Crows and vultures called back and forth to one another as they descended upon the scene, picking the women’s bodies clean and devouring the bloody mush of the stomped head.
The sun came to fall and rise once more. And once more. And once more. And once more.
Many came to claim; none left with me. A woman scorned and hellbent on revenge on an entire family; a smug king who knew better; despots and dictators would come, seeking divine authority to rule but never being worthy of the title.
Until one day, something new came to the clearing.
From the outside, it looked human yet on the inside… nothing.
An empty vessel in the shape of a human with only one goal in mind: to lead a kingdom not as a human, but as a king. He had no ambition to conquer the world, no desire to drown the heavens in palaces of gold and gems, nor goal to gorge on all the worldly pleasures.
To be King, one must shed the individual for the sake of the collective.
Pride and Humility
Envy and Charity
Greed and Generosity
Wrath and Mercy
Sloth and Diligence
Gluttony and Temperance
Lust and Chastity
The impossible happened: I found the one worthy. I allowed him to pull me from the stone and raise me up high. Sparing no time to gloat and bask in the beauty of my form, the King lowered me into a sheath and set off to build his kingdom.
You were young when you noticed something was amiss. Perhaps six, perhaps seven, when you woke to the sound of chaos. Call it a warning, but it unsettled you. Opened a hole in your heart. Paved the way for anxiety to burrow deep within your veins. But you were the good child, the sweet child, the responsible child, so when the attention shifted to you, you masked. You said nothing. You simply tossed and turned, and when the next morning rolled by, you pretended everything was fine, even when nothing truly was.
You were young, but oh, how quickly you had to learn to mold yourself into something you were not, just so the instability could continue with its vile pretense.
You were older when it crumbled some more, its ashes gathering near your feet, but your smile stayed intact. You took a broom, and you cleaned it up, and you tucked it under a rug, because that was your self-proclaimed job. And when they smiled back, relief present in those panicked eyes, the mess no longer visible, you felt like you’d done well. You felt as though you’d stopped the coming of something already transpiring, even when its cracks were too deep to ignore.
So the next time you saw your mother, the red in her eyes, the unshed tears as she fought to contain herself, you smiled and you grabbed her hands and you told her everything was okay. Because somehow, you’d fooled yourself into believing that if you cut yourself back, there would be one less problem to take care of. One less issue to address. One less reason to shout and yell and take and hurt.
Before long, you found yourself in a self-made cage, too anxious to stay in but too afraid to slip out. You grew smaller
And smaller
And smaller
And smaller
Because if you were silent, the world wouldn’t notice, and how could you be so selfish enough to dismantle a comfortable deception?
But tell me this, Girl of Steel, Heart of Fire. While you were busy protecting everyone else...
Who was protecting you?
By Mika McManus
The Room was empty of all entities, except for Creator and me. I was the only one of my sisters He could stand to look at past completion, so the three walls of windows that surrounded us shone light from the west on nothing but piles of His tools and the remnants of the things He’d made. I had never made anything, and so I couldn’t possibly imagine why every time He had made the final touch on one of my sisters, He either seized her from her place in the center of the Room, her first sight being a flurry of motion as He whipped her away, the first gentle calls moving like disturbed dust through the air as He took her to a place I had never seen and never wished to go to or He would simply rip others apart, never letting them see the world He brought them into, never letting them call out to the rest of us. I wondered what fate He would choose for the one that currently sat in front of Him, open and undeveloped on the well used seat. He stood before her, working His miracles, mahogany brow furrowed and peach mouth slightly agape.
Sometimes He would speak to me while He worked. He would ask me which version of the thick, shining material He ought to use, as if I deserved the honor of such influence. Other times He would wonder out loud about what He was doing, what little sense it made, like He truly didn’t see the wonder and magnificence of the power He held. And sometimes, He would tell me He missed my singing. That the absence of it haunted Him like a phantom. I did not know what such strange things as ‘singings’ or ‘phantoms’ were, but I deeply regretted the pain He felt. I had not been the one to cause it, but I thought my presence perpetuated it. I think that was what my purpose was: to keep the wound open. A reminder and a remnant of what He had lost and remade. The tears that spilled from his juniper eyes onto the dark, splintering floor told me so.
The trouble began when He began leaving the Room. Before, He would only leave for moments to do whatever mysterious task, and then He would return appearing less tense or wearing different colors and textures. Sometimes when He would return, His hair would be hanging in loose, thick clumps, water shining like new diamonds in the light. He would rest on a pile of quilts and burlap, trusting me to watch over Him. He would eat here, sitting on the floor next to my seat, sometimes asking me questions or making conversation with me. So it was in the bright and warm light, and in the dark and cold light. From the moment of my completion to the time where He began to change, He never spent more than a moment away from the Room. When we reached what I now know to be the beginning of the end, He stepped out of the Room and did not return until the light had shifted from warm to red. He slept on His pile when the light grew cold, and then left when the light turned warm again. My unfinished sister sat forgotten on her seat, not knowing yet to feel neglected or lonely. I envied her. The light had gone from cold white to red to warm three times before He returned and fell on His knees before me. As well He should, I thought haughtily as He gripped me and murmured sweet words, something about ‘SoSaRee’ and ‘Love
You All Ways’. When the light had turned cold again, He retreated to His quilts and burlap and slept. He did not leave the Room again for some time, instead resuming the work He had started and then momentarily abandoned. But then the woman began appearing.
Sometimes she appeared and would stand at His shoulder while He worked. He did not speak to me while she was here, as if He was afraid of her. Nor did He look at me when she stood over Him, watching as He worked tirelessly to bring forth His new creation. No, instead, she and I would gaze at one another. We never spoke, not as He and I had done before she had gracelessly invaded our space. But we stared. And Felt. She noticed, I’m sure, the beauty and care He had given me. I noticed the ice in her cyan eyes, the rigidity in the curls of her platinum hair. She did not look so sweetly made as any of His work.
Other times, she would appear in the Room only for a moment, and then He would follow her out. These were very sad times indeed, because when she stole Him, He was unable to return for many changes of light. Sometimes when He returned, He would gently kiss me and say “Hell Oh.” Other times, He would not speak to me at all for shame. I did not hate Him; I knew His pain well, held it within me. I tried to forgive Him, to understand Him as I had in the seemingly infinite light changes since I had been completed. But He kept leaving me, and I could sense how important she was becoming to Him. His absence felt like a loss. So potent and destructive was the grief that gray clouded my vision and I felt as though I were a ghost.
After so many changes of the light I had lost track, He returned. My heart leapt as He approached me, cooing softly. Joy grew in me like sunlight melting a frozen river as He took a rag dipped in some oily substance and gently wiped my face, clearing the gray loneliness from my eyes.
“SoSaRee,” He said. I did not know what His words meant and I did not care. I focused on His beautiful callused hands as He continued wiping me off. I could have sprang to life with the happiness of it, I could have forgotten that I could never move unless He moved me, never really smile unless He fixed my face to do it. I could’ve let it all go like leaves in running water. But then, He brought betrayal down on my head like fire and brimstone. He took me from the Room.
I remember not caring what He was doing in the first moment that He held me in His arms. I was just so happy that He had taken the sides of my frame in His own two hands, that I was so close with Him that I could see the individual fibers of His red flannel shirt. But then we turned, and I was looking through the set of windows I had always had my back to. I had never even seen out of them, never noticed the tall spruces and how the red light made them look black - and now we were retreating from them. I looked over His shoulder as He carried me from the only place I’d ever known, my world shattering with every shuddering step. I wanted to scream, to cry and beg as He turned us down a long narrow hallway towards a terrifying unknown, but He had fixed my mouth in a pleasant smile that had never moved no matter how many times I’d tried.
I stared at the end of the bare, dark-wood paneled hallway as we began going down, the abruptness of His starts and stops making it feel like falling in short spurts. The lower we went, the more the walnut stairs I’d never seen filled my vision, the limited sight of eyes that had never looked up or to the side. I longed to tear my arms from their stationary prison, to claw at him and those horrible stairs to get back to the easel I’d been sitting in since the beginning. But I was not a living thing, not a being of animation or noise. There was nothing I could do as He took me down another set of stairs, these ones pale and unfinished, into a room so dark that even I could absorb no detail. He raised me to look into His eyes, His frame a terrible shadow in the light filtering from the door at the top of the rickety stairs. One word He uttered as my world ended: “GOODBI.”
He took me in one hand by the top of my frame and placed me against something foreign and hollow. The screaming filled my ears as I recognized the texture of cloth and dried paint and he turned to climb those stairs again. My screaming finally joined those of all my sisters as he reached the top and shut us all in darkness again, our grief and loss echoing against walls I could not see and filled the endless space. This, I realized - the darkness he had damned us to in order to silence us, to banish us from his mind - this was Death. In his attempt to dismiss the memories he had made us from, made us with, he was murdering us. I would not have it.
Even if I could not see them, I could sense where my sisters were. Canvasses of every size stacked against walls and each other, some suffocated by the weight of others and all choked by dust and tears that they could feel but would never really be there. I knew. Shhh, I whispered. I sent them images of snow falling softly outside the Room’s windows, glimpses of the Cold Sphere and the Warm Sphere I had caught in the moments when they rose or fell in the corners of my vision. I sent them the rich tilled soil of their eyes, the thick ginger waves of their hair and the cream of their skin. I shared with them the beauty I knew, and with it, they quieted and turned their attention to where they knew I sat with them in the inky black. When they had all silenced their grief, I showed them the ruby hues of blood. The imbalanced scales of justice in Creator’s choice to bury us here, and the wind-quick movement of pure rage. And I made a suggestion. Fierce savagery coursed through us all as they agreed, and we stood together in one quivering, wrathful entity of decaying, waterlogged canvas and ruined dreams.
Step by step, We lurched and clawed our way up those forsaken stairs, all of Us working to direct limbs that We had never had the ability to move as separate beings. Together, We could force these clammy feet bit by bit over coarse wood, dig these cracked and rotting fingers into the step ahead in order to haul Us toward the thick white door at the top. The final time We flung out a hand to grasp a ledge, it went through thick, painted oak and landed on smooth pine slabs. A scream sounded on the other side of the ruined door. The woman. Our mouth smiled from ear to torn ear as we continued to break apart the exit to Our prison, the shouts of Creator barely audible over the destruction We wrought. We finally tore our way through and landed on the pristine hard wood of Creator’s home, and raised our cloudy gaze to where he and the woman sat, holding each other and trembling with horror at what he had awoken in Death. Together, all my sisters and I worked the long destroyed vocal cords to say the words I had heard so many times:
When We had finished unleashing Ourselves upon them, We climbed back up to the Room where unclaimed tools of creation sat. If Creator could not be trusted to keep Her memory alive, We would do it for him.
“
SOSAREE. LOVE YOU ALL WAYS.”
Nevaeh Bravo
Week May 15th,2022 – May 19th, 2022
HallMonday:I had a math test today.I didn’t pass it so I have to stay on multipleacation.Makenna that sits next to me is already on long division it looksso hard.
Tuesday: We had a fire drill today.It was the only fun part of the day.The teachers say not to run but if there is a real life fire I will run! Jayce always pretends to pull the fire alarm but the teachers get mad but I think it is funny
Wednesday: During recess it was so hot.I miss my home in North Dakota.I missed the snow thiswinter. It is so hot here all the time. I could not even sit on the ground it was too hot so me and Tess just did four square.
Thursday: Last night I had my first dance class. My big sister does dance and probably my favorite part will be the costume. Later in school today we are having an assembly I’m excited because it is during math time.
Friday:Today my teacherMrs. Garcia gave us five more class points! Now we get a point party.We have to vote for a movie day or a pajama day or extra recess. I think I am going to vote for movie day.
Nevaeh Bravo
Week May 22nd, 2022 – May 26th, 2022
Monday:Mrs. Garcia told us that we are going to have our point party tomorrow. I am so excited! She told us that movie day won. She said we are going to get to bring a snack I think I will bring cookiesand chocolate milk. Im so excited for tomorrow it will be the best.
Tuesday: We are going to do movie day after writing time.She told us the movie is going to be the secr
Mrs. Bravo, surrounded by her closest family, reads her daughter’slast assignment. Held in her hands is the last object herdaughterever touched.The last thing she put thoughtsinto.The paper is now soaked in tear dropsof the loss only a mothercan feel. When she reaches the end of that last Tuesday, she cries. Not the same cry as when you stub your toe on the corner of a wall, it’sa cry of horror, of rage. This cry, only a mother can cry. She screams and curses God’sname. Howcould he allowthis to happen? Howdo his best and most loyal followersreceive such cruel and unimaginable punishments? She will clench Nevaeh’s last words to her chest for the rest of her life.She will carry around Nevaeh’s memory like a torn tapestry you are unable to repair.
She wails on for her daughter.She screams at the thought of herlast moments. There she was, about to have the “best day”, as Nevaeh put it.Instead, it was the worst. The last moments may not always be the worst, but for Nevaeh it was. For her mother, it is. For her father,it is. For the community, it is. It will stay the worst. Children caught off in the middle of theirsentences, writing about “The Secret Life of Pets”.
Nevaeh’s mom will make a copy of her last words. She can’t bear to let the original out of her sight.She touchesthe paperto feel close to her at night.She will frame the copy to lay next to the chain link fence among the 21 other groups of flowers, candles, and stuffed animals. Thisright here, is the worst. The worst for so many. But so many otherswill soon know what the worst feels like,and the worst feeling will spread, spread like wildfire.
The thing about being that “go-to-person” is that, in return, I have no one to go to.
It’s a universal truth in the purest of fashions. The very idea that I was born and bred only to cater to the majority, so I stay confined, enraptured with the minority.
Notorious for my ability to absolve allyour suffering.
Vindicating all your harrowing senses causing your general chaos.
Eradicating all your tedious impulses that plague your nanoscopic mind.
Acknowledging when it’s my turn to speak, adhering to all of your brazen requests. Unable to function like an average being.
The marionette in yourperformance, which yougenerously conduct from above. On a stage of yourdesign hidden behind the masterful drapes, stitched softly and hung professionally. My ‘PuppetMaster’.
I’m not allowed to even consider prying, whether I want to or not. However, with the insatiable descriptions I am presented, I am able to illustrateyourlingering ghosts.
Following the pacing of your words with my ample brushes. Coating the minuscule hairs in oils, with consistencies bursting in cognizant colors; utilizing my pristine shades for your blessing. Yourresilient vocals paint a flawless visual.
No matter the extent of yourdepravity or deviance, I remain; rooted at the tips of your toes. Powerless to rudimentary mobility.
“Outofpity?”you might question. “Ofcoursenot,” is my response, “unlessthatiswhatyouneedofme.”
My time is for youand whatever it is that younecessitate. With heavy consideration, in the study of yourdeceptions, I am fluent.
Witnessing the stress unshackle its burden, from youronce audacious form, with every session we keep under lock and key. Rediscovering those dubious suspicions when we revisit those moments every—single—time.
When all is polished and perfected, better than before, you are never there to return my kindness. The audacity .
I was walking down the street, getting some slabs of meat and bones from the butcher. But on my way, in the corner of my eye, I saw a colorful red and yellow flyer. In the infamous red and white striped tent, a clown was dancing while he balanced on a huge bouncy ball as he held fluffy pink cotton candy, and there were animals. I saw lions jumping through the hoops that their handlers presented to the audience, an elephant in vibrant attire, and horses that were white with colorful polka dots all over their pelts. Seeing that flyer plastered on the window, I felt a rise in my chest. And before I knew it, I let out a childish giggle. Immediately, I ran home. I didn’t even remember what I was doing in town. I loved the circus.
When I was a young boy, my father would take me to the circus every year. Every year, we sat in the same row at the very top of the benches. We always got popcorn, cotton candy, and peanuts. I can already remember the smell. His favorite attraction was the lovely ladies who performed on the trapeze, and mine was the lions. When my father passed, I was only 16. I asked my mother, but she thought the circus was senseless and cruel. I never went back since. And like my father, a piece of me had parted.
I distracted myself by focusing on school, graduating high school, going to college, and earning my degrees. My dream was to become a doctor. And at my university, I met a wonderful woman. Just as I stated in my vows, I promised to lavish her. I worked hours on end, saved as much as I could, and I bought us some land to build a beautiful home. Not too long after, my beautiful wife was bearing our child. I was going to be the best father to my son. But sometimes things aren’t meant to be. I was there for my wife. I stayed by her side. The midwife was lovely, she comforted my wife, encouraged her to keep pushing, and so did I. Right by her side. I never left her. Then, our baby boy was born. But he only lasted 1 hour. And my wife...we didn’t last.
It was the day of the circus; I hadn’t slept at all that night; I was so excited. That morning, I shot out of my bed and put on my best attire. I wore a dark grey suit and pants, a plaid vest, and a pure white button shirt, and I put on my shiniest black shoes. I groomed my mustache, fixed my hair, and put everything together with a dark grey cap. I looked in the mirror before I headed out the door, and I couldn’t help but admire how astounding I looked. I left my apartment 2 hours early; I didn’t want to take any transportation. It was such a lovely day, so I decided to travel on foot. I had to contain myself, or else I’d start skipping and clicking my heels. It’d been so long since I went to the circus, and by God, I felt like I was a kid again. I could almost see my father walking alongside me.
I walked down the sidewalk of Mainstreet, grinning ear-to-ear, and the folks around me gave me funny looks. I nodded my head in greeting, said hello with a warm smile, and even stopped for a bit to talk to the man that sat beside the dumpster. He was a kind soul, a tad bit out of luck, but he was made of gold. I cherished the heart-to-heart exchange, and we even laughed together as if we were old friends catching up. I told the fella farewell, and I was back on my journey. I complimented a lovely lady who was sliding envelopes into the drop box, she wore a cream blouse, a long skirt, black heels, and a little white hat that sat on top of her large blond curls. I told her she looked so stunning that even the sun agreed. Her round blue eyes sparkled, and her white teeth emerged through her smiling deep red lips. She reached a gloved hand up to her flushed cheek and looked away from me all bashful, I told her to have a wonderful day before continuing.
I knew I was getting close, the smell of popcorn and sweets hung heavy in the air, and I could hear the excited chattering of men, women, and children. My heart leaped when I turned the corner, saw the enormous red and white tent, and my legs itched to run inside. But I contained myself. I was a gentleman, so I must act as one, for goodness sake. Upon entry, oh my heart sang. I don’t know how I did it, but it was as if I manifested to the very seat my father and I had always occupied.
All those years ago. It’s hard to believe he’s not here with me, to experience this moment of joy. My dear father...
It wasn’t too long until the enormous halo of the spotlight lit the middle of the arena, I was practically bouncing in my seat. The man in the large black and gold coat, matching top hat, and white gloves strutted out to face the crowd. The Ringmaster. He gave a gentle bow with the tip of his hat, the crowd was clapping and yowling, and he took it all in with the elegant gesture of his waving hand. He twirled the tip of his mustache with his finger, eyes narrowed, and he gave us all a sly smirk. Then, his voice boomed.
“Welcome ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages. Welcome to the Grand Ol’ Circus. Welcome to the greatest show on Earth...”
He tipped his hat to the audience once more. Behind him, men in suspenders were setting up the first show.
“The circus is about to begin. This is an amazing and spectacular show you are about to witness...Imagine! Man, and beast. Face-to-face...”
I could feel my lips stretch into a large grin, my eyes were wide, and I could feel the sparks in my chest. Oh, how I missed this feeling. I felt a warm tear run down my cheek. Finally, after so many years, my beloved Grand Ol’ Circus.
“Ladies and gentlemen, young and old, put your hands together for William James and Abril the lion!”
The thunder of cheers and clapping rumbled the arena, I clapped, giggled, and bounced in my seat. My favorite attraction. Right before my eyes at last. The ringmaster gave one final bow as he backed out of the spotlight, and then emerged the handler, William James. He was a gruff, large man, he wore a white sleeveless shirt, brown pants, and shiny black boots. His handlebar mustache stretched wide and curled into spirals at the tips. He raised his muscular arm, and in his hand, he held the infamous black whip. He cracked it beside him, brought it over his head while it wrapped around his waist, spun around, and as it unraveled, he cracked the whip over his head, and the crowd applauded his introduction.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I am the great handler, William James. And what you’re about to see is me, a man, handling the most dangerous animal!”
With a wave of his hand, William James signaled to the other carnies. Then, a second spotlight lit a large opening. Two men in white tank tops and brown pants entered the arena, each had a rope in the grasp of their large hands. As it trailed behind them, something tugged the other end of the twine. And as if my eyes were graced, the mane of Abril the lion was like the sun from the shadows of the night.
My heart sang and my mouth hung in awe. My dearest, beautiful lion. My dear Abril. Oh, what a blessed day. But...something caught my eye. When my wonder began to settle...when William James spoke the introduction for the first trick, I couldn’t help but gaze carefully upon the animal. Wasn’t he bigger? Wasn’t he...fuller?
Abril...The lion’s head hung low almost to his humongous paws, his golden pelt was matted, his bronze eyes were dull, and his flank...sunken. I could see his ribs, spine, and hips...my god, he looked miserable. So much pain, sorrow...the agony. That’s not how I remembered him...
With the whip, Mr. James slapped the leather at the animal’s paws. Abril grunted but did not attempt to obey his handler’s commands, and his mouth gaped in a huge yawn. He cracked the whip once more, but Abril’s legs wobbled until his belly was pressed onto the dirt of the arena. I could tell Mr. James was frustrated, as well as humiliated. The crowd was silent. They were waiting for a show. A show that was promised. I could see his face stiffen, and his eyes stared hard at the creature. He walked slowly up to the animal, and the whip dragged in the dirt, he stood over the beast, and the whip slapped between Abril’s eyes. A rumble came from the lion’s throat, and suddenly, the great William James was in the mouth of Abril the lion.
I never blinked. Abril’s tooth had punctured through Mr. James’s neck, and the handler’s mouth gaped open, gasping for breath.
Only to be drowning in his blood.
The crowd panicked, and bloodcurdling screams rose throughout the stadium. All of them had scattered from the benches, piling over each, pushing, jumping, just about everything they could to quickly get to the exit. As for myself, I watched everything. I was frozen. Abril had dropped William James onto the dust, the blood pooled around him, and I saw the life in his eyes fade away. In my state of shock, my legs shook as I stood from my seat. My feet felt heavy as I stepped down from the benches, and the toe of my shoes dragged against the dirt. What was I doing? What was my purpose to be in the arena?
I don’t know.
Abril was struggling to keep upright, his flank heaved as he panted. His eyes looked around wildly, then he caught sight of the exit.
With merely a whisper, I didn’t realize I was so close.
Abril’s eyes drifted to me. I, a man, looked into the beast’s eyes. As we shared a gaze, his mouth closed slowly, he relaxed what was left of his muscles, and his head lowered. I was not afraid. Then, the deafening thunder of a rifle pierced through the atmosphere. I felt Abril’s blood on my face, I looked directly at the hole the bullet made between his eyes, and I watched him fall.
Cruelty.
That’s what I learned from that day. Is this what humankind has come to? We, as man, causing pain to other living beings?
The more I see it, the more I despise my kind. Not only to animals but to our own species.
The kind gentleman I visited by the dumpster, was robbed and killed a week ago.
The lovely woman I met at the drop box, was taken into a shelter after her husband beat her.
My wife left me after our child’s death, she blamed me.
My father was killed in a car accident, by a man who made the stupid decision to drink too much.
And the poor bastard, slain by my own hands. As well as many others.
To whoever cares to take the time to read this. I was a good man, full of life. So much admiration and amiability. Would you believe me? Would you believe I was once good?
The pain...the loathing, I can’t take much further. Between my child, my father, the damned bastard, and Abril, they all shared one thing in common. And I envied them.
I stared into the mirror, and I observed the most dangerous animal...
One last time.
-BenjaminPierre
