A Journal of Arts & Letters

Author: lonestarvoice.org Page 1 of 25

EveryGreen by Andrew Angaroni

EveryGreen

Plants.

Trees. Grass. Ferns. A forest in spring.

The thick water of a bayou. Lily pads. Alligators.

Pond turtles. Sea turtles. The illusion of seawater.

Rose thorns. Dart frogs. Emerald vipers. Best left to their own devices.

The kitchen’s garden.

Herbs. Oregano. Thyme. Cilantro.

Basil. This one brings other memories.

Avocado. Lettuce. Peas. Asparagus.

Broccoli. Devoid of memories, for good reason.

Descension. Turbulence. Ascension. The Cycle of Blaarf.

An upset stomach’s quarry.

Memories of sickness. Uranium, allegedly.

The noxious fumes of the Harvest Valley.

Greed. Envy. And then, hellfire.

Rose thorns. Dart frogs. Emerald vipers.

The color of death.

Green light, heralding the way forward.

Green lizard, puffing with pride.

Green frog, created to dispel the fears of a child.

Trees. Grass. Ferns. A forest in spring.

The color of life.

Pond Capricious by Andrew Angaroni

Pond Capricious 

The drab little pond was as serene and uneventful as ever. Nobody had come by yet  today, the only company around was the typical sort. There were no sounds or smells. There were  only three things: the lake, its inhabitants, and the humid summer air. 

The brownish, pink gravel path, which looped around the perimeter of the pond, was  untread, waiting eagerly to be ventured on by the local great-folk. At one portion, the path  gave way to a small wooden bridge, made to ease the journey for the domesticated passerby  when the terrain became uncooperative.  

Near the entrance to our pond, large, flat rocks dotted the shore, suitable for the great-folk  to sit, stand, and climb on. There were also some benches further from the pond, but they were  coated in dirt and leaves. They were seldom used, for the great-folk preferred to congregate  around the main attraction, our pond and home. A trash can or two could be found along the  path. We hadn’t ventured close enough to them to smell the odor that emanated from them  when their lids were lifted. But we had seen what sort of things the great-folk had thrown in  them. The hideous faces they had made as they did their dreaded duty. We do not want any part  of it. 

Many trees made their home around the pond, and on the end of the pond opposite to the  rocks, they congregated in numbers large enough to be considered a small forest. In truth, the  trees aren’t all that memorable when they are alive. But some of the dead ones had fallen into the  pond. Their cadavers poked out of the surface, trunks, stumps, and branches jutting out and  snaking across the surface of the water. These made for great places for our kind to sit around during the peaceful hours, some of them were even large enough for us to gather together to  participate in our cherished tradition, soaking in the sun.  

The fountain in the middle of the pond lay dormant and inactive. The truth is nobody  knew when it would turn on and off, not even the great-folk. It didn’t matter anyway, all it  served to do was scatter water uselessly into the humid air only for it to fall back into the water.  It was only there because the pond would be incomplete without it, according to the  indecipherable customs of the great-folk.  

We shared our pond with other creatures. Countless tiny fish, who only served to pick  away at our scarce food supplies, and scatter away into nothing if we ever drew close to them.  On a rare occasion, the crane might make a stop at our pond, to fly circles around us with its  great, white wings. What a show-off. And of course, there were the goliaths. The great-folk  feared them for their powerful bite. Powerful enough to remove a finger, they whispered  amongst themselves. We wished they feared us for similar reasons. Maybe then they  wouldn’t bother us as much. 

Alas, some great-folk were brave or foolish enough to tussle with the goliaths regardless  of the danger. How then could we expect them to leave us be? They would come and throw  bread into our pond, and then lie in wait. We had two options: Lie and watch the tiny fish nibble  away at the nourishment meant for us, or claim our divine right and hope we escaped. The great  folk knew this decision wracked our minds. If we drew too close to the shore to grab their bait,  they would catch us in their great nets for sport. They would usually return us to the pond after a  brief celebration. Sometimes they would let us scurry into the water ourselves, oftentimes with  beasts at our backs, gnawing at our heels. A few of us tell stories of being thrown back into the  water as if we were skipping stones. But the outcome was always the same. We would live to swim another day, but our hearts and minds would never quite be the same. Fear took root  amongst our ranks, seeped into our shells. 

Just as we expected given the weather today, the great-folk arrived. And they had brought  with them their great, haired beast. They came here periodically, because where else would they  go? The pond was close, it was routine to come here, and they insisted on bringing their beasts.  As the beast tugged at its leash, they saw us lying on our fallen log, our safe haven. We hoped  that maybe today they would feel mercy in their hearts, but like every other day, it was to no  avail. They made a beeline for us, as they had many times before. The great-folk enjoyed  tormenting us this way, watching us flee in terror at the sight of their slobbering beast. And flee  we did, lest we incur the wrath, the beast’s wrath. Though the beast feared the water, its tenacity  and blind ambition might spell doom for us if we attempted to stand our ground. The same fear  we all shared once again took a hold of us, and we were spurred to action. One by one, we  abandoned our post, and plopped into the murky water, out of their sights. It would only be a few  minutes until they would leave the pond, we hoped. Then things could return to being serene and  uneventful once more.

Desert at Night by Callie Cosper

Desert at Night

The bags are abandoned, 

swept by the wind. 

The dark night is interrupted the blue moon

that casts a shadowy fog,

illuminating the orange of the bag. 

  The desert is harsh and arid.

The freezing air whips and bites my skin.

The scorpion stands menacingly,

guarding what is his.  

I wonder if he feels protective. 

If he is helplessly defensive over what is his. 

I tread the desert sand, 

In desperate search of food and water. 

My lips are blue and my tongue is dry. 

The bags and can are so close, 

close enough to stretch out my arms and grasp.

The scorpion whips its head around, it’s tail snapping behind.

One look tells me that the bags have been claimed. 

They are no longer mine. 

One wrong step and the scorpion will strike. 

He will pinch my flesh until it bleeds 

and his venom will course through my veins. 

The moonlight highlights his pincers 

and he tells me it is time to turn around.

I Am The Sea By Sara Belén Worsham

I Am The Sea

Past and present,  I remain unchanged in my wholeness and majesty

With foamy tendrils, I reach out to the coarse sands of the shore

I reach for you, beautiful and frail in both your joy and your agony

You find my rumble comforting, often falling asleep to my roars

You humans still puzzle me, even after so many thousands of years

I snatch your ships and plunge them into myself, stealing your loved

But you bring your children, let me lap around them, without any fear

You cannot survive my depths, but like to study them from up above

I can take no sides in your fleeting petty affairs and bloody wars

Yet you bring metal monsters into my waters to destroy each other

I play a central role in each of your countries’ stories and lore

And you disrespect me, polluting my waters, time after another

I suppose this means you treat me like one of your own kind

You try to love me unconditionally, conserve my natural splendor

But there is too much of me, and I must surely not mind

If oil sullies my waters or if the lives of my creatures are hindered?

And I say, no, I do not l mind these hateful, dirty actions of yours

For my waters are vast and lively, and they wash clean all impurities

My lifetime is infinite, but yours is quick, sudden, and nothing more

I have existed since time itself, yet you lot boast in your maturity

You say that I am a wonder of this world, a piece of art

I am terrifying and deadly to you, yet you all love me

Pulsing of my waters matches the beating of your hearts

I am an eternal and silent witness, for I am the sea

Me, Myself, and I by Alexis Maxwell

Me, Myself, and I

There are moments in which I am thrown back into my twelve-year-old mindset. It’s frustrating, but it happens, and there is no reason for me to lie about it. My last few years in Georgia were perhaps some of the most miserable times in my life to date. Never have I ever felt more alone, more miserable, frustrated, or stupid than when I was a fifth-grade student at Timber Ridge Elementary School. 

Looking back on it now, I can say I never truly had a great time there, not like I perceived my brother to have. Many of my memories back then are tinged with a grey blanket of discontentment and melancholy. Now, of course, nothing terrible happened there. Nobody hit me or hurt me physically. It was the emotional distance my peers had from me, the way I knew they didn’t like me and would talk behind my back. 

Because rarely has anyone ever said insults to my face, save for a few times that I don’t think I’ll ever quite forget. 

I thought I would. 

I didn’t.

When COVID shut down the world, I was at home and spent the majority of my time on the Discord talking to people all across the continent. I made a lot of acquaintances and friends through different servers. Some were more pleasant to be around than others, but they helped pass the time.

On one of these servers, I got rather close to a group of people who shared my interest in My Hero Academia, a popular anime. We shared original characters and stories. We spent far more time than we should on VC while waiting for the lockdown to ease up. For a period with a lack of human contact, I always had someone to talk to. 

Then I started working again, and I was still talking to these people every day or so, in between taking classes. On my way home from work one time, I came to a startling realization and not the pleasant kind. It was sort of like a chill that ran through my body; my heart seized as the thought ran through my head.

You gave these people the opportunity to hurt you and leave, just like everyone else.

Honestly, a rather immature thought now that I think about it. A self-fulfilling prophecy I wrote myself into. It’s so strange to see relationships fall apart, to realize that this is the end. This is where your paths diverge…and you’re alone again. 

Again.

And again.

And again.

But what is life without a visible ending? As they say, get busy living or get busy dying, even if you lose a friend along the way. Right now, I may not have a lot, but I have enough, and that is something I can at the very least be thankful for.

Something about her by Tatum Givens

Something about her

Something about her skin felt right.

Maybe it was the music.

Maybe it was that the fog lifted for a second.

But she was on okay terms with the mirror.

She wanted to look.

She wanted to see what she lived in.

She knew it wouldn’t last,

But those few seconds were worth it.

They meant everything to her.

Even when she takes three steps backwards for every step she takes forward,

She still cherishes those times of clarity.

Where her mind lets up and just lets her look.

Those times when she accepts that she can’t always be in control

And

Accepts that she shouldn’t take her pain out on herself.

She reminds herself of these moments when she falls, and

She uses them as an extended hand.

She offers it even if she knows she won’t take it just yet.

The Angel in the Marble by Emily Lara

The Angel in the Marble

“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” — Michaelangelo

There was an art to putting something into existence. Above all else, there was a pattern in doing such a marvelous act. A rhythm.

Of course, he had been doing this for so long that he had memorized the feeling of his tools in his hands. The rough, splintery handle of his mallet as it wore callouses against his palm. The cool kiss of his chisel—forged from fire, forging magic now in its tempered, steel form.

He knew the rhythm so well that he could focus on other things while following it, tap, tap, tapping away at crevices and corners so detailed that they almost made his projects look real. The state of  ‘almost’—thank heavens—was only temporary, though, as the state of his finished products always said otherwise.

Yes, there was an art to putting something into existence. It was a skill however, to be able to make those somethings last.

Tap, tap, tap.

“And what else?” He asked suddenly. “Was he—charming?”

“As his mother, I think I am obligated to say yes.”

“But what is your true answer?”

Tap, tap, tap again.

His company paused, needing a moment to withhold her answer.

“I suppose he tried to be charming. He focused more on being kind, though.”

The man, the artist, halted his rhythmic chiseling, leaning back from his work to examine the lines he had just carved. Two collar bones, both even in size. Good.

He bent forward again, this time blowing out a short breath to push excess dust off them both. A thin cloud briefly fogged his vision. “I see,” He mused finally in reply, “And did he ever wish to be a tutor of some sort? A school teacher perhaps?”

He nearly forgot how far he was from the woman upon asking the question, only being reminded of such a fact by the faraway sound of her pew creaking underneath her weight. It certainly did not help that he wasn’t facing her, but he could hear her voice just fine through the echoes of their space.

Per his only rule when it came to spectators, she wasn’t faced in his direction either.

“At one point he did, yes. How did you know that?”

The artist adjusted his mallet again, now at his piece’s sternum. His tone was light. “Call it intuition. Unless, you would like to believe that he told me that himself just now.”

That commentary made the woman laugh wistfully, but no actual words accompanied the response.

She fell silent, leaving him at that, and all there was was the sound of him working away.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Was the space between his collar bones too narrow?

Eyeing the small pit at his statue’s neck, he chipped further to resolve the issue he saw, his hollow chiseling falling into a more rapid pattern for a few seconds before he stopped again. Blow. Dust cloud. Repeat. Perhaps if he were not transfixed by the little details, he would be finished in no time at all, but he needed to be precise with this one. Down to the very last fissure. After all, the statue’s likeness came from somewhere, and the artist could not imagine there ever being a face of little importance.

Satisfied with how the sternum turned out, the man found himself switching tools, leaning down from his position atop a small stool to grab hold of a thinner chisel. His previous one clanged against the floor, void of purpose now that it was not held within his hands, and it was at that exact moment that he allowed himself to glance behind him, looking out to his audience of one who sat with her back to him.

He was the one then to break the silence. “Tell me more about him. This seems, well—therapeutic for you.”

The woman’s head rose slightly, and although she did not turn back, he did not need to see her expression to know that it was a good question to ask. What better way to grieve than to talk about the person one lost?

He did not wait for her reply before he faced his original direction again, having already resumed his tapping when he heard her speak. She began in a tender mix of grief and happiness, a strange in-between that only a mother could have understood. “My son taught me everything that I couldn’t have possibly learned on my own. He taught me the values of humility and integrity. He taught me how to be brave, simply because he was brave himself.”

He heard her steal a shaky breath.

“I have already mentioned to you that he was a soldier, but there was so much more to him than that. There was a boy inside him that liked to watch bakers sell bread through windows. There was a man who never batted an eye when it came to helping others, through big acts or small. There was someone I raised that was not like me at all—someone too forgiving to be mine, too generous, too noble. The list goes on. He was a benevolent soul whose love for others was as infinite as the ocean beyond our shores, who did good things for the sake of them and not because he needed to gain something else. My son was, I suppose, everything I never have been.”

The note she chose to end on had been striking to say the least, her words sending a haunting chill into the air before she quieted down again. She had nothing else to say, and despite the man not having reacted in a way to show that he was impacted, he certainly had many thoughts swimming around his head. That had been the most the woman had spoken thus far, both about herself and about her son.

It was quite telling the things she had said, and truly, it made sense now why she approached him in the first place only a few months prior, asking what exactly he was able to do with his art before she commissioned him. She had visited this place nearly every day since then, asking the same questions of when he would be done, when she could finally see his work, all while waiting for the miracle that was recreation to be completed in full.

She loved her son, so much so that she would request that he be sculpted in memory of his life shortly after his tragic death. So much so that she would return to a location that she had not been for decades after closing an earlier chapter in her life and starting anew. It seemed she would have requested anything to get just a semblance of her late child back, and he was the only artist in their city said to have the best work. He didn’t even need a description of the person in order to sculpt them.

Her request was what brought them to where they were now, of course, inside a cathedral that had long been abandoned, with her seated somewhere in an endless sea of pews and him surrounded by his own collection of tools at the altar. The replica that the woman desired was at the center of it all, standing tall upon a slightly elevated step that put him over the artist as he worked. That was why he needed a stool to kneel upon in order to reach anything above the shoulders. That was why he asked all of those who requested something like this from him to not look at the project until he was completely finished.

If they wanted to spectate, they had to enter the church with their back turned until they found a seat—a pew that was also turned in the opposite direction from the altar.

If they wanted to speak with him while he turned stone into man, they might, but they could not rush the process. No one could. And he made no exceptions for the mother who was mourning and wanted him to recreate what she had lost.

From his own perspective, she was a fool in her request.

From the part of him that was an artist, she was, in fact, a genius.

After considering her spiel for several moments, the man repeated her words out loud, as if testing them of their validity. “A benevolent soul whose love for others was as infinite as the ocean beyond our shores… How touching.”

His rhythmic tapping did not falter as he inched further up to add detail to his piece’s jugular. However, somewhere in between the short, hollowed-out noises, he sounded amused all of a sudden, like there was something funny about this all. “In the city. There is a name for people like that, is there not?”

The woman shifted a bit in her seat, unsure of the inquiry but responding anyway in a low voice.

“Yes. People like that, I believe, are typically called Good Samaritans. Although… there are not many of them around anymore. Goodness comes in small measures these days.”

Tap, tap, tap. A Good Samaritan?

He said nothing at first. He gave a perfectly executed pause. Then, his questioning continued.

“And you admire those kinds of people? So much so that you would hope your son was like them?”

“What? I—” The company of the man floundered for a flicker of a moment, before she gathered enough composure to shoot out something accusatory. “My son was one of those people. Are you insinuating that I’m not telling the truth about that?”

Without turning around, the artist chose to ignore her last utterance, the cap of his knee readjusting itself on the wood of his stool nonchalantly. He truly had little reaction to her, and he was rather blunt in the callous, unfiltered statement that came next. “I suppose you may be right then, amate. About what you said about Samaritans. They do not last long in this world, and neither did your beloved son.”

He heard the mother gasp, and already having expected to be damned to Hell because of his commentary, he interjected sharply before she could cut him off, his tone a bit more firm. “I am not finished. Please—let me continue on.”

The burning, heavy silence from the woman should have been answer enough. After all, he could sense—feel—her volatile temperament heating up the entire cathedral, which held irony in itself when remembering whom she had once been. Where she came from.

Slow to speak, slow to anger…

He could not say for certain if she practiced such a scripture anymore, but in this particular instance, she seemed to try. In fact, the only thing that let him know that he could continue forward was the smallest of grunts, before he heard something akin to a tight creaking sound. That let him know that she had most likely gotten up in the silence, nearly leaving the holy space altogether before returning to her pew. He could only hope she was still facing the other direction.

Exhaling a quiet sigh, he pressed the edge of his chisel against his piece’s jawline, now chipping away at another facet. “Your son. Your son was a Good Samaritan. Unlike most young men these days, he was an honorable, fair, benevolent gentleman, and according to you, he was a soldier not faint of heart.” He turned his chisel one way, fine powder falling down with every hit of his mallet. “He lost his life serving in a war that I do not suppose many will think we will win. It has, after all, been a perilous year for our humble little city, but I take it that your son knew that. And chose to serve in our legion regardless.”

Tap, tap, tap.

“If he was as honorable as you claim him to be, he was different from all the countless other men who rode off into war because they saw it as an obligation, to protect their mothers, to not be seen as cowardly by their fathers. Your son, if he were truly a Good Samaritan like you said, chose to fight because he wanted to. For the good of everyone, so that perhaps five, ten years from now, others will not have to. Far beyond whatever worthless reason justifies sending your soul off to die, he reasoned with himself that that was his purpose in life—to sacrifice himself for others, to throw himself out in front of the sword.”

At that last word, he drew back his tools, eyes already inspecting the statue’s jaw with much care. “So, I do believe that I am correct in saying that your son perished like a true Good Samaritan would. You, given your past obligations here within the church, should know more than anyone that horrible things are inflicted upon good people all of the time. They do not deserve it of course, but that is just the way things are. Why else do you think we have such a thing called fallen heroes?”

With everything he had said, the artist knew he was pushing it by daring to ask her a question—one that he ultimately knew she would not answer. She did not dare to make even a sound when he was finished speaking, which in turn caused him to glimpse behind himself for a second time to check if she was still there.

She was—only this time, her head was hung downwards, and her entire body frame was trembling silently in her seat. Tearfully. His lips pressed into a solemn line upon noting this, and he considered for a split moment in time not saying anything else at all, especially now that he had made her cry.

But… something moved him to speak regardless. Almost as if it were an urge buried deep within his bones. Like a whisper in his ear.

Tell her… keep going.

A final attempt at making things better, the man set down his tools, and his head turned halfway in her direction. His voice echoed outwards, softer than before. “If I may say one last thing… And I swear to it that I will never speak of this again… Dying with the reputation of being a Good Samaritan makes your son better than all of us. The same cannot be said for a lot of people, and I am certain that he did not die for nothing.”

A moment passed between them. And then another. And another.

It was in slow motion that the woman finally raised up her head, barely able to stop trembling as she did her best to compose herself. He watched as one hand flew to touch her face—probably to wipe away tears—and it was only when it fell back into her lap that she bore enough courage to speak again.

“Are you done, yet?”

“I already told you I was.”

“No. I mean with the statue. Are you finished with it, yet?”

The artist wordlessly turned his head back to his project, jaw settling as he gave it a thoughtful examination, tracing it with his eyes up and down. He should have expected her to ask that. The woman was not herself if she didn’t.

Shockingly though, his answer was different this time around.

“Yes… Would you like to see him?”

She stood before he could even finish the question. Her pew squeaked; he jumped forward. The man quite literally had to make his way down the altar before she could even dare to turn around, and words began to tumble from his mouth soon enough. “Please. I will help you up there. Just close your eyes and do not open them until I tell you. You have my word that it will be worth it.”

He positioned himself so that his frame blocked her view in the meantime, and for the first instance since she arrived, he was able to catch an up-close glimpse of her expression. It was duly noted the manner in which she chose to scowl at him, at his request, but nevertheless, she did as she was told. She shut her eyes, well-aware that nothing would happen if she didn’t, and by the arm, he led her to where he had been only moments before, setting her right before the statue where streaks of warm sunlight came in just behind it—from the magnificent display of cathedral windows.

After all they had spoken about, this moment could not have arrived soon enough.

Eyes flickering between the woman and his masterpiece, the artist breathed in and eventually took a step back from the scene he had purposely created. Back down the steps, until he stood upon the very last one of the altar.

The golden word came only whenever he was fully out of the picture, his role having switched from centerpiece to audience in just one nimble stride. He was a spectator now to this glorious, sunlit scene, and there was nothing more liberating than finally being able to drop the curtain. Finally being able to just sit and watch for what came after.

After all, the past was the past.

“Alright.”

The present was now.

“Open.”

And as it was, this moment most certainly had always been his favorite one. The reveal, the reaction. Hers unfolded just as he expected it would with a telling array of emotions flying across her features, one sticking out more than all the others as she became absolutely breathless.

Disbelief. It was disbelief.

She had gasped whenever she first peeled open her gaze, and since then, she could not stop gaping at what existed in front of her. Her eyes shot up and down in a flurry, back and forth across a perfectly measured stature, before her attention fixated on facial features.

She dared to ask the man aloud after a few more seconds, and somehow, he had expected this one more than the other. He knew it was coming.

It always came, and he was ready to explain the impossible.

“How? How did you do this?”

The Blackness by Alex Brokmeyer

The Blackness

I.

It is a weight.

A weight that pulls me down to the blackest of pits.

A weight that sits on my shoulders and breaks my back.

It hangs around my neck and threatens to pull me under.

I am constantly treading water in a sea that is anything but calm,

And I am miles away from any kind of life.

In the middle of the ocean

Without a float

And the rain is starting to fall.

The sun is setting.

It is getting dark.

I am all alone and the clouds are moving in.

Alone and frightened.

The water is too dark to see anything.

The blackness below threatens to swallow me whole.

It is a black sheet that is keeping me trapped

And it is so cold.

II.

I have to keep fighting otherwise I will sink.

I will drown and no one will ever find me.

They will never even know that I was here.

I will be lost forever

In the blackness that surrounds me,

With no way out.

III.

How did I get here?

How did it come to this?

The weights around my neck

Are pushing on my shoulders,

Threatening to drag me down

Into the black

Nothingness

That waits inside of me.

Where no one can find me,

No one can help me.

Where I am so lost and afraid that I do not know which way is up.

How will anyone be able to rescue me?

IV.

They do not know where I am.

I do not know where I am.

Is it worth the fight if no one can find me?

V.

The storm is growing.

The darkness is overpowering.

Below the surface of this storm it is so peaceful,

But it is dark.

Can I just stay there and let the blackness have me?

VI.

No.

I must fight.

I must stay afloat and try as hard as possible to stay above the surface.

Someone is looking for me.

Out here.

Maybe they will find me.

Maybe.

Daily Night Routine by Jazmin Rodriguez

Daily Night Routine

1:27 AM, I open my eyes and blankly stare at emptiness

No control for my thoughts

My mind can’t escape those vivid scenes

2:36 AM still awake, I turn to my side, replaying that night

Reliving unwanted experiences

Finally,

3:32 AM came to me and asked, what are you doing awake?

Are you seriously still thinking about that?

God you’re so embarrassing

Just get over it

It was just one time and nothing else

He said he loved you, remember?

You were both having a good time

Besides, you were the one who asked for it, remember?

…right?

Charlene Gutsman by Natalya Emilie Powell

Charlene Gutsman

Charlene Gutsman died on Friday. They, the faceless and formless They, who stumbled upon the tragedy and got to claim the first grisly bits of it for themselves when telling the story to anybody who would listen, found her in Hawthorne Park on the northern edge of town early Saturday morning. Poor, poor Charlene Gutsman. Even her name sounded fat. That was, in part, why it was such a shock. When the paper was printed with the obituary, my mom looked at the picture—an unflattering yearbook photo of a pasty girl with pale, greasy hair hanging limply on either side of her round face, small eyes hidden in a hollow carved out from all that shiny flesh, and a crooked smile straining hard to hold up her big cheeks so they didn’t droop too close to her double chin—and asked, “Is that really her?” in that sort of raised, hushed tone of quiet disbelief. Later on, I would realize that she was surprised that out of any of the perfectly decent looking seventh grade girls in our town, Charlene was the one that got picked up. She may as well have been asking, “Don’t pedophiles have standards?”

I learned about Poor Charlene’s death on Saturday afternoon. I was drawing when I heard my mom come home, calling out a greeting without looking up. I kept drawing when I heard her heels click-clack down the hall, kept drawing when I saw her stop in my doorway from the corner of my eye, and only stopped when she asked, “Did you know a girl named Charlene Gutsman? She was in your grade,” in the faux-casual way that anybody would ask such a random yet leading question. I knew, generally, where these sorts of inquiries led. As a receptionist for the only optometrist in town, my mom knew practically everybody in the county with eyes, and, as a result, was privy to all sorts of gossip. She often approached me with a “do you know” or “have you heard of” sort of question, something to establish a foundational understanding, so I could indulge with equal interest in the sordid secrets of our small town. But this question was different, either by my own bias upon hearing that name or my mom’s unnaturally somber tone. I didn’t know why, but the two things paired made a tight little knot form in my stomach, hard, and rough-textured, like the pit of an old peach. I told her, “Yeah, I know her. Why?” 

“She died last night,” my mom said with an air of significance, a very particular annunciation of the news because that was how people spoke of death. It was a finality. A grim reminder of mortality. My mom didn’t know that Charlene Gutsman existed before that day, but it would be awfully callous to speak about the death of a child without some heavy emotion, some pretense that this abstract loss meant anything to her. I didn’t understand the complexities of those specific, unspoken social rules, but it wasn’t difficult to intuit how I should mimic the behavior. 

That’s why my eyes widened, my eyebrows shot up, and my voice raised up a note or two higher when I asked, “How?” 

“She was picked up when she was walking home from school,” my mom said, “and dumped at the park sometime last night.” 

“Oh,” I said. Hearing that a girl I knew had been kidnapped and murdered was a peculiar feeling. It settled heavy and cold in my stomach, creeping and crawling into the bloody viscera of my insides and lodging this conceptual sense of disgust deep into my nervous system. But the nervous flutter had an element of thrill to it, like I was suddenly involved in the disturbing, alluring, and deliciously frightening events in a crime drama TV show. And, in the deepest depths of my brain, I felt a twisted sort of jealousy that even my unconscious shied away from articulating. But then those feelings were mashed against reality, against the name and image I had of Poor Charlene Gutsman, and those thoughts fell away. I had no idea how to react, no idea what emotion was appropriate. At thirteen, my feelings exploded outwards in primal gusts on either extreme end of the emotional spectrum, emerging in grand episodes which I hadn’t yet learned to control. Now, hearing of an actual and genuine tragedy, I felt this sickening slosh of cold, liquid dread. My mom must have misinterpreted my silence, coming further into my room and sitting on the edge of my bed. I had the foreboding impression that I was in trouble, like I should have apologized, like I had done something very, very wrong. 

“Were the two of you friends?” she asked. My eyes rolled around my room for an answer, suddenly feeling very lost for familiarity. The early autumn sunshine slanting through the windows was dip-dyed in sweet tangerine from my curtains, warming the entire space in a friendly orange and painting her skin in the hue. The color was usually such a comfort, but now it made her seem alien and strange, my room taking on the uncertain dimensions of unreality, hazy with dust and unnatural air. The cold was spreading, I could feel it all the way in my fingertips. 

“No,” I said. No, we were not friends. Poor, poor Charlene Gutsman didn’t have friends.

 “What’s the matter?” she pushed. I didn’t reply at first, just looking at my mom with this ache growing in my chest. Somehow, I couldn’t believe the lipstick pink frown she was wearing. That soft sympathy in her voice was familiar but hollow. She was digging for information. This was gossip. Charlene Gutsman, poor Charlene Gutsman, meant nothing to her. And why should she? Charlene was a child she didn’t know, a stranger. There was no reason to grieve for a stranger; people died every day. And what I felt, was that grief for a dead girl? I barely knew her. No, I don’t think it was grief. But there was something more, an admission I needed to make. My mouth opened, I drew in a breath, but I couldn’t say it, couldn’t manage the words for all the conflict they represented. I didn’t say anything at all. After that, my mom told me about the new curfew, and about the buddy system. I told her I knew these things; I told her I would be smart and safe. And then I returned to my drawing, and she left my room. I cried a little after that. I don’t know why. It just happened, growing and growing until the tears began to drip against the page and smear the blues and greens.

On Monday at school, there was a general, grim atmosphere. With a graduating class of fewer than one hundred students, even a single missing face was impactful. Everybody whispered about it, breaking off into clusters to ask their friends if they had heard the news yet, everybody hoping to share the details they had heard and exchange their versions of the events so they could take part in the gruesome sensation sweeping through the town. Everybody wanted to feel as if they were a part of it in some way. They all said, “Poor, poor Charlene Gutsman.” I had gym class first period. Every girl in my class complained about how unfair the time slot was, and how cold and miserable mornings were. But, on Monday, every girl was quite pleased with it because we all got to watch Mrs. Kinsey clear out locker 202. She said nothing, announced nothing as she pulled out the stinky XXL girl’s gym clothes, a pair of ratty Sketchers, the green tube of extra-strength deodorant, and a few loose sheets of paper. Everybody watched solemnly like this ritual had some sort of significance. Then, in complete silence, Mrs. Kinsey slammed the locker shut with a cruel clang of metal. She left it lockless and empty, bearing no ghost or memory of the dead girl. When Mrs. Kinsey disappeared into the office, the buzz of conversation picked up with such perfect timing it almost felt scripted. Girls clumped up and whispered, casting sidelong glances at the empty, apathetic monument of locker 202 and saying things like, “Poor Charlene. She was such a kind girl. It’s such a terrible shame. We were such good friends.” And it was the same as it had ever been. “Poor Charlene,” we all used to say, watching her big, flabby body jiggle beneath the unflatteringly tight white of her gym shirt as she lumbered through the mile run. Well, in her case, it was a mile walk. But if she did run, we would all act impressed, we would all say, “Look at her. I’m so glad to see her trying. She’s so admirable.” I sat by my locker on the textured concrete bench and listened to the other girls talk amongst themselves. The part of me that always wanted to be included, that longed for the validation of that mean little huddle that stank of body spray and antiperspirant, urged me to join in. “Poor Charlene,” I would say. 

“On Friday, I–” But the guilt was hot in my lungs, behind my eyes, and everything else was cold. My eyes squeezed shut, the words flaking off into shards of glass-like ice and dropping into my stomach. The urge to cry again hit me with a fresh wave of sickening guilt. We all treated Poor Charlene so heartlessly. I never thought about it when we spoke; I never considered how terribly I treated her. I thought I was a good person, and good people didn’t mistreat others. Disgust drew up from the deepest part of my guts, painful and bloody, and I kept thinking that it was their fault, that I wasn’t the one who started saying things like that about Poor Charlene, that my judgment of her was a product of the people around me, and it wasn’t my fault. Then I actually did start crying, curling over my knees to hide my face. Given time and the perspective of adulthood, I think I’d come to the conclusion that the worst part of that harsh reflection of my actions wasn’t responsibility, but the shame and directionless anger that I could never absolve myself of the guilt by apologizing to her. Most people say they wish they could have done more, but I knew I could have done more. And poor, poor Charlene Gutsman was dead. The forgiveness I so desperately wanted would never come.

#

I saw Charlene’s mom when I passed the front office on my way to third period. I knew it was Mrs. Gutsman because of how big she was, her massive form cutting through by the crisscrossed wire set into the windows that looked out into the hall. She overfilled the wooden frame of one of the little chairs arranged around the edges of the room, flab drooping over the armrests and chins wobbling as she cried. Tears glistened on her ruddy, wax-like cheeks. The skinny, curly-haired receptionist Ms. Langley was talking to her, a look of concern pinching her narrow features as she pawned off tissue after tissue. I wondered what she was saying. What could anyone say to Poor Charlene Gutsman’s grieving mother? Was she telling her that, until now, nobody cared even a little bit about Poor Charlene? How could someone diplomatically and kindly explain that their child was nothing more than a whale-sized eyesore, the literal elephant in the room? While she was alive, Poor Charlene wasn’t the responsibility of anybody in the school. Not when she showed up in the same unwashed clothes, not when she got laughed at or ostracized, and not when she stared hard at her desk with tears glazed over her little eyes. Everybody knew her, of course, she was the only two hundred-something-pound thirteen-year-old in the whole town, but she was still invisible. And yet, now that the worst thing possible had happened to her, the entire school—the entire town—painted itself red and proudly proclaimed that she was their responsibility after all. Poor Charlene! She is our tragedy, our pain, our dearest, beloved, darling Charlene Gutsman.

On Friday, blissfully ignorant of what was to come and brimming with restless excitement, I escaped from the drab school halls and into a weekend I had been looking forward to since Monday. When it came to entertainment, all my town had was a four-screen movie theater, a library, and the local rec center. Once, there had been a bowling alley that stank of cigarette smoke from the bar. If I really thought hard, I could dig up trace memories of a roller rink with an ancient projector they used to splash old music videos onto the painted white brick. But those things no longer existed, and as a result, parties hosted at the rec center were a huge deal. All of my friends would be there to eat pizza, play games, and generally enjoy time together without parental intervention. My shoes crunched on the dead, dry grass as I made my way towards the line for the buses. While I scanned the crowd for any of my friends, my eyes settled on a familiar figure lumbering down the sidewalk. Charlene was twice as wide as anyone else and hard to miss. Her blond hair glinted like dull straw in the sun. Did she walk home? Poor Charlene, I thought with a sudden burst of genuine sympathy. She looked so sad, so pathetic as she made her lonely way down the road while other kids lined up for the buses or waited to be picked up by their parents. On some impulse of guilt or pity, I began to run towards her. The two of us weren’t friends, not really, but she sat in front of me in math class, so we had at least spoken. Surely it couldn’t hurt to at least invite her to the rec center party. “Charlene!” I called, cutting past the noise of the crowd. She immediately looked behind her shoulder, a look of panic on her face. I stopped in front of her, breathing hard, and then my thoughts caught up with my actions. What would she do at the rec center party? Play the games? They were all physical. I pictured her gobbling a greasy slice of pizza in the corner, watching everybody with those sad little eyes all by herself. She watched me curiously, nervously, waiting for what I meant to say with a rigid, defensive posture. “I… um… Have a good weekend,” I finally told her, forcing a grin. 

Charlene’s distrustful look became a hesitant smile. The expression made her look cute, almost. It poked dimples into her cheeks, highlighting the face beneath those round cheeks. Even her small eyes looked prettier, twinkling in the sun. “You too,” she said. 

I hesitated again, wanting to say something more to ease the sticky sensation of guilt gumming up in my throat. “Maybe,” I said, “maybe you and I could hang out sometime? We could study together.” 

Charlene, no longer looking so poor, blinked in surprise, her smile brightening even further. “I would like that,” she said. And I thought that maybe I would, too. We exchanged numbers, and I gave her a final wave before running to the bus, worried I would miss it. I don’t know what she thought about that interaction, but I hoped—I desperately, selfishly hoped—that it made her happy because that was the last time I, and perhaps anybody aside from her murderer, would ever see Poor Charlene Gutsman.

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