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Red Sidewalks
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Literature Text
Flame is a girl who likes writing poems on her palms.
She writes wishes on them, too, and wouldn't wash them for days until her aunt shoves them under a running faucet and scrubs them clean until Flame cries.
Mommy, Daddy I…
…wish you…
…didn't mean to…
…love you…
…sorry I…
She loves drawing as much as writing, and etches family portraits on to the side walk until the rain comes from the heavens, and it becomes far too obvious what that red line above their heads are for. The little girl survives, every time. All smiles with a silver crown, she stands alone under an over-turned plastic box. She is like the last bomb survivor of Hiroshima: there but has the sickness in the marrow of her bones.
Her eyes are always looking at the past, they're supernovas of the sun; a thousand million molecules and atoms exploding and sucking everything in with them. Her hair is and shriveled like the last tomato on the vine and as bright as bloody sunsets and fire engines.
The crown on her forehead is from the mantle, where it all began. It's a piece of rustic metal melting in fires of the past, dreaming of nights where it sat atop a woman's head for her murmur of "I do".
The bandages, she was told, were to protect her wounds from infection, but Flame knows all. She remembers the aid's whisper of don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook as she wound them over her eyes for just a moment as screeching wheels ran past, but she saw the open black bags catch moonlight.
She remembers the sluggish pitter-patter of her bird heart twisted inside her chest, and murmurs coming from stoic lips and faces. She remembers shaky fingers on her cheeks like fire, though they said that was the culprit itself. She remembers most of all, choking on air and seeing smoke come out through her lips.
Flame knows bandages can't protect her eyes, but prays for reprise from the voice in her mind. Ash, she calls him. His voice is like feet on gravel, his face same color as the firefighter's who pulled her out of the rubble, but she remembers him just falling. He never coughed up smoke. His voice is but a whisper among sirens, background noise against music playing in the car, but he is always there—
"Youkilledthemyoukilledmeyouleftthefireplacelityoukilledthemyoukilledme."
Flame is the child of a Mother and Father, but a daughter of ashes she was dragged from.
She writes wishes on them, too, and wouldn't wash them for days until her aunt shoves them under a running faucet and scrubs them clean until Flame cries.
Mommy, Daddy I…
…wish you…
…didn't mean to…
…love you…
…sorry I…
She loves drawing as much as writing, and etches family portraits on to the side walk until the rain comes from the heavens, and it becomes far too obvious what that red line above their heads are for. The little girl survives, every time. All smiles with a silver crown, she stands alone under an over-turned plastic box. She is like the last bomb survivor of Hiroshima: there but has the sickness in the marrow of her bones.
Her eyes are always looking at the past, they're supernovas of the sun; a thousand million molecules and atoms exploding and sucking everything in with them. Her hair is and shriveled like the last tomato on the vine and as bright as bloody sunsets and fire engines.
The crown on her forehead is from the mantle, where it all began. It's a piece of rustic metal melting in fires of the past, dreaming of nights where it sat atop a woman's head for her murmur of "I do".
The bandages, she was told, were to protect her wounds from infection, but Flame knows all. She remembers the aid's whisper of don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook as she wound them over her eyes for just a moment as screeching wheels ran past, but she saw the open black bags catch moonlight.
She remembers the sluggish pitter-patter of her bird heart twisted inside her chest, and murmurs coming from stoic lips and faces. She remembers shaky fingers on her cheeks like fire, though they said that was the culprit itself. She remembers most of all, choking on air and seeing smoke come out through her lips.
Flame knows bandages can't protect her eyes, but prays for reprise from the voice in her mind. Ash, she calls him. His voice is like feet on gravel, his face same color as the firefighter's who pulled her out of the rubble, but she remembers him just falling. He never coughed up smoke. His voice is but a whisper among sirens, background noise against music playing in the car, but he is always there—
"Youkilledthemyoukilledmeyouleftthefireplacelityoukilledthemyoukilledme."
Flame is the child of a Mother and Father, but a daughter of ashes she was dragged from.
Written for The Flame and Ash Short Story and Poetry Contest
I told myself I wouldn't enter another contest for a while, but I saw this and it honestly just wrote itself.
Any guesses on who Ash is?
I told myself I wouldn't enter another contest for a while, but I saw this and it honestly just wrote itself.
Any guesses on who Ash is?
© 2010 - 2024 AlloenDreams
Comments27
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Oh my frick, I had the longest comment here written and the page reloaded. I could flip out so easily right now. God.
Let me try again, and please forgive me if this isn't too coherent; it's very frustrating as I spent ages writing it and thinking about it.
i) "etches family portraits on to the side walk" -> I think you can get rid of the "to". It's excess and I think it reads better without it. That's my personal opinion, you don't have to change it if you don't agree, but that's how I feel about it.
Minor corrections:
ii) Her hair is and shriveled like" - I'm pretty sure the "and" isn't supposed to be there, heh.(:
iii) "but a daughter of ashes she was dragged from." A daughter of the ashes, perhaps?
I just want to congratulate you on placing in the contest. You've certainly written a good piece.
The only thing "wrong" with it, for me, is that I feel it's too detached. I feel no compassion whatsoever for Flame, even though she's been through a horrid time. I don't feel any worry or sympathy, and I generally do for characters. I'm not quite sure what it is about this that doesn't connect me to it, but I think I prefer your other writing to this. Not that this is bad, I just feel the previous writing that I've gone through is more emotionally charged and I can identify more with it. As I said, I'm not entirely sure what it is about the piece - you've your nice imagery and good descriptions in it - but for me, as a reader, I'm not connecting with it.
I think you focused a little bitteen too much on Flame, and not enough on Ash. Considering they are both in the title, I think Ash should have a bit more of "screen-time", let's say. I think an extra paragraph detailing him might help. Of course, this is just me, you may feel that I'm wrong and probably others will too, but I figure that as he is included in the title, I think he needs a bit more oomph in detailing him.
Again, this is just my opinion. I could be the only person feeling this, and maybe I am. Don't take it the wrong way, please. You've asked for my honest opinion, and that's mine. (:
Let me try again, and please forgive me if this isn't too coherent; it's very frustrating as I spent ages writing it and thinking about it.
i) "etches family portraits on to the side walk" -> I think you can get rid of the "to". It's excess and I think it reads better without it. That's my personal opinion, you don't have to change it if you don't agree, but that's how I feel about it.
Minor corrections:
ii) Her hair is and shriveled like" - I'm pretty sure the "and" isn't supposed to be there, heh.(:
iii) "but a daughter of ashes she was dragged from." A daughter of the ashes, perhaps?
I just want to congratulate you on placing in the contest. You've certainly written a good piece.
The only thing "wrong" with it, for me, is that I feel it's too detached. I feel no compassion whatsoever for Flame, even though she's been through a horrid time. I don't feel any worry or sympathy, and I generally do for characters. I'm not quite sure what it is about this that doesn't connect me to it, but I think I prefer your other writing to this. Not that this is bad, I just feel the previous writing that I've gone through is more emotionally charged and I can identify more with it. As I said, I'm not entirely sure what it is about the piece - you've your nice imagery and good descriptions in it - but for me, as a reader, I'm not connecting with it.
I think you focused a little bitteen too much on Flame, and not enough on Ash. Considering they are both in the title, I think Ash should have a bit more of "screen-time", let's say. I think an extra paragraph detailing him might help. Of course, this is just me, you may feel that I'm wrong and probably others will too, but I figure that as he is included in the title, I think he needs a bit more oomph in detailing him.
Again, this is just my opinion. I could be the only person feeling this, and maybe I am. Don't take it the wrong way, please. You've asked for my honest opinion, and that's mine. (: