This I'm hoping to make into a Flash kid's book. Until then:
Almost hypnotic, almost at reach.
I see the red balloon;
Floating to the beach.
A ballet in motion, a dance so divine;
The world melts away
Like red velvet wine.
What song do you sing? What tune do you hum?
A serenade for me,
It beckons me to come.
Where is it going? I pray thee tell.
Follow the red balloon;
It will grant me well.
Over the hills, beyond the sea;
The red balloon
Will wait for me.
The red balloon, with whom I roam.
Traveling swift and far
‘Til it guides me home.
1.29.2005
1.27.2005
1.26.2005
Fighting Demons
The transition from awake to asleep never occurred; it just started with a buzzing in her ear, followed by the distant sound of children laughing, which quickly turned into screams. Allyson knew that it was happening again. The aroma in the room became denser almost like the air itself died. She tried moving her limbs and to no surprise, they felt heavy on her bed, as though violently pinned down. Her head bobbed back and forth to break free from this invisible force that was restraining her. The screaming had transformed into an unrecognizable wail that was slowly getting louder and more unbearable. Then suddenly, everything stopped.
She was quick to turn on the lights to get a good look around the room. Her stuffed animals were lined up along the shelf almost laughing at how silly she must’ve looked fighting nothing. The shadows that loomed in the lamp’s soft light also seemed to be mocking her with their dark, translucent fingers pointing at her. Was it a dream? Had she played the whole thing out in her head? That being the case, it might have proved her to be clinically insane, she thought. Regardless, she forced herself to sleep, trying not to let her eyes focus on an object and to construe it into something that it wasn’t.
Despite the anxiety she experienced, which was neither the first nor the last, Allyson’s sleep went undisturbed until morning when her clock radio sprouted out “Purple Rain” for the umpteenth time this week. She rolled out of bed and was greeted by the same stuffed animals that ridiculed her the night before. They sat quietly with hollow eyes almost implying nothing happened a mere five hours ago. The room was also much more alive and fresh, with sunlight streaming in from the window breathing life into it. She grabbed the pair of jeans and tee-shirt that were closest to the top of her drawer, threw them on, and scurried downstairs to the kitchen, where she found her mother sitting at the table.
“You’re going to miss the bus,” her mother said without looking up. Allyson wanted to tell her mother about last night, and the other nights for the past three months.
“Where’s Dad?” Allyson said.
“Work. Is everything okay, hon? Do you want me to drive you to school?”
“No, I’ll be fine.” Her mother got up from the table and left to the other room as Allyson grabbed a granola bar from the cupboard and dashed outside for the bus. There was a small group of older kids from her school waiting at the bus stop heavy in conversation but they all stopped to give Allyson an acknowledgeable nod and a smile.
“So anyway,” the tall boy with the backward ball cap continued, “it’s just a myth my grandmother told me. Pretty creepy though. She said it’s an omen that something bad is happening and a ghost or demon sits on your chest to keep you from moving.” Allyson’s jaw dropped and her ears perked up. She was gasping for air as she was forced to relive the previous night. She refused to allow herself to show interest in what the boy was saying because it would mean she believed it; fact of the matter was she did. After a few murmurs of fascination from the group, Allyson jumped in.
“How do you fight them?” The question was welcomed with head turns and stares.
“What do you mean?”
“How do you fight them? The demons.” She looked at the tall boy first then went around the circle desperately seeking a resolution.
“You don’t,” he said, “it’s not real.” Just then the bus peeked around the street corner and made it’s way toward them ending the awkward conversation. This did not stop Allyson from thinking about it all day.
***
Evening came and darkness fell, leaving Allyson dreading going to bed. She was not sleepy at all but felt this was something she had to do. Perhaps this night would be different; there were nights that were peaceful and undisturbed. However, Allyson hoped this would be a night she did not have to fear, whether it was peaceful or not, she was going to fight back. She laid her head down slowly on the pillow and shifted her eyes around the room. She caught sight of herself in the mirror looking small with the stuffed animals hovering above her on their shelf – waiting. She reached over to the lamp and turned off the light.
It wasn’t a half-hour until her eyes opened wide as she breathed in the air smelling of decay, then that noise began to ring in her ears. She tried to struggle right away, hoping to run to the door before anything actually happened, but the weight pushed her down. She opened her mouth to scream but almost immediately a hand pressed hard into her face, drowning her in her own pillow. With all the rocking in her bed she was causing, the lamp had fallen to the floor forcing itself to turn on. Allyson saw her reflection in the mirror again, looking much smaller, and not seeing anything on top of her. For a second, she felt the grip give a little and took the opportunity to break free. She jumped out of bed and ran out the door.
It followed her down the hallway as she desperately proceeded to her parents’ room. She could hear the children screaming echoing behind her, but a faint sound of crying made Allyson stop. The sobbing was beyond the door, in the room. She slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open to find her mother slumped in the corner of the room with a look of shock and fright as she acknowledged her daughter standing in the doorway gaping at this sight. Her hands raised and her head lowered to hide her face.
“Go to bed, honey,” her mother said, struggling to show no fear or shame.
“Mommy?”
“She said go to bed, Allyson.” Allyson looked up at the dark figure towering over her mother. It was an ogre with bloodied fists and steel eyes; it was a demon, it was her father. The voice was familiar, yet his face looked different – hardened as though chiseled from stone. The air was rotting worst than in her own room. Allyson stayed where she was, glancing back and forth between her mother and the demon, and finally with one last look of aspiration to help her mother, Allyson stepped back into the hallway and closed the door. It felt like she was floating to her room, like she had fallen and was being carried back to her sanctuary. Right away, Allyson’s eyes met those of her stuffed animals, still hollow, but mournful and dead.“Close the door,” she said aloud, “and make sure I never leave.”
She was quick to turn on the lights to get a good look around the room. Her stuffed animals were lined up along the shelf almost laughing at how silly she must’ve looked fighting nothing. The shadows that loomed in the lamp’s soft light also seemed to be mocking her with their dark, translucent fingers pointing at her. Was it a dream? Had she played the whole thing out in her head? That being the case, it might have proved her to be clinically insane, she thought. Regardless, she forced herself to sleep, trying not to let her eyes focus on an object and to construe it into something that it wasn’t.
Despite the anxiety she experienced, which was neither the first nor the last, Allyson’s sleep went undisturbed until morning when her clock radio sprouted out “Purple Rain” for the umpteenth time this week. She rolled out of bed and was greeted by the same stuffed animals that ridiculed her the night before. They sat quietly with hollow eyes almost implying nothing happened a mere five hours ago. The room was also much more alive and fresh, with sunlight streaming in from the window breathing life into it. She grabbed the pair of jeans and tee-shirt that were closest to the top of her drawer, threw them on, and scurried downstairs to the kitchen, where she found her mother sitting at the table.
“You’re going to miss the bus,” her mother said without looking up. Allyson wanted to tell her mother about last night, and the other nights for the past three months.
“Where’s Dad?” Allyson said.
“Work. Is everything okay, hon? Do you want me to drive you to school?”
“No, I’ll be fine.” Her mother got up from the table and left to the other room as Allyson grabbed a granola bar from the cupboard and dashed outside for the bus. There was a small group of older kids from her school waiting at the bus stop heavy in conversation but they all stopped to give Allyson an acknowledgeable nod and a smile.
“So anyway,” the tall boy with the backward ball cap continued, “it’s just a myth my grandmother told me. Pretty creepy though. She said it’s an omen that something bad is happening and a ghost or demon sits on your chest to keep you from moving.” Allyson’s jaw dropped and her ears perked up. She was gasping for air as she was forced to relive the previous night. She refused to allow herself to show interest in what the boy was saying because it would mean she believed it; fact of the matter was she did. After a few murmurs of fascination from the group, Allyson jumped in.
“How do you fight them?” The question was welcomed with head turns and stares.
“What do you mean?”
“How do you fight them? The demons.” She looked at the tall boy first then went around the circle desperately seeking a resolution.
“You don’t,” he said, “it’s not real.” Just then the bus peeked around the street corner and made it’s way toward them ending the awkward conversation. This did not stop Allyson from thinking about it all day.
***
Evening came and darkness fell, leaving Allyson dreading going to bed. She was not sleepy at all but felt this was something she had to do. Perhaps this night would be different; there were nights that were peaceful and undisturbed. However, Allyson hoped this would be a night she did not have to fear, whether it was peaceful or not, she was going to fight back. She laid her head down slowly on the pillow and shifted her eyes around the room. She caught sight of herself in the mirror looking small with the stuffed animals hovering above her on their shelf – waiting. She reached over to the lamp and turned off the light.
It wasn’t a half-hour until her eyes opened wide as she breathed in the air smelling of decay, then that noise began to ring in her ears. She tried to struggle right away, hoping to run to the door before anything actually happened, but the weight pushed her down. She opened her mouth to scream but almost immediately a hand pressed hard into her face, drowning her in her own pillow. With all the rocking in her bed she was causing, the lamp had fallen to the floor forcing itself to turn on. Allyson saw her reflection in the mirror again, looking much smaller, and not seeing anything on top of her. For a second, she felt the grip give a little and took the opportunity to break free. She jumped out of bed and ran out the door.
It followed her down the hallway as she desperately proceeded to her parents’ room. She could hear the children screaming echoing behind her, but a faint sound of crying made Allyson stop. The sobbing was beyond the door, in the room. She slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open to find her mother slumped in the corner of the room with a look of shock and fright as she acknowledged her daughter standing in the doorway gaping at this sight. Her hands raised and her head lowered to hide her face.
“Go to bed, honey,” her mother said, struggling to show no fear or shame.
“Mommy?”
“She said go to bed, Allyson.” Allyson looked up at the dark figure towering over her mother. It was an ogre with bloodied fists and steel eyes; it was a demon, it was her father. The voice was familiar, yet his face looked different – hardened as though chiseled from stone. The air was rotting worst than in her own room. Allyson stayed where she was, glancing back and forth between her mother and the demon, and finally with one last look of aspiration to help her mother, Allyson stepped back into the hallway and closed the door. It felt like she was floating to her room, like she had fallen and was being carried back to her sanctuary. Right away, Allyson’s eyes met those of her stuffed animals, still hollow, but mournful and dead.“Close the door,” she said aloud, “and make sure I never leave.”
Beautiful Face
I'd see him on the steps of the church. He'd never go in and I'd never approach him. I didn't know what drew me to him but I loved him. I'd make up any excuse just to walk pass him; pick up groceries, drop mail, anything to see him; but he could never see me. The man; whom I admired so much, was blind. Most people walked by and disregarded him as a mere beggar. I saw that he was more. He was an artist. He'd sit on the steps and sketched whatever paraded in his mind. I think that was what I loved most about him; his vision despite his blindness.
I walked pass him once and glanced at his drawing. He hand had smudged most of the conte which made the drawing unrecognizable. One would feel sorry at this sight and throw spare change in his direction; but I didn't, I couldn't. He was strong and did not need my pity or charity. His drawings told me that. Their expression spoke louder than words; I can't explain them. I saw the determination and passion in his face. He saw more than any of the day-to-day Joes that strolled by the church, oblivious to this work of art, and unaware of his beauty.
One day, as I once again decided to walk pass the church, I saw him fumbling around the bottom of the steps. He was looking for something; frantically searching for his conte crayon; he was helpless. I stopped in front of him and just looked down. I did not know whether or not he sense that someone was standing over him; maybe he did not care. I wanted to tell him that he was beautiful, that I loved him; that his drawings spoke to me in ways no foreign language could translate.
"Do you need any help?" was all I could offer him. He stopped his search and looked up as if he could see me.
"Actually," he started, "this is rather embarrassing, but I seem to have dropped something; a piece of conte. I've never allowed it to leave my hand but..." he trailed off. He didn't have to finish. I started scanning the steps for that piece of conte. It was the only way I could do something for him and he would be pleased. He would remember that voice that offered him assistance and that voice was mine. That blasted piece of conte was carelessly lying by his foot. I picked it up and clutched it in my hand. Gently, I took his hand and place the conte back where it belonged. There was a moment of silence until I started to leave.
"See you around;" was all I could say.
"Wait!!" he called out to me. I stopped abruptly. "There must be some way I could thank you." I tried to protest and tell him it really was no bother but he was so very persistent. "I'll draw you," he told me.
"Excuse me?" I said in disbelief. I didn't want to sound rude. It would be an honour to have him draw me; to feel his eyes on me. But, could he see me?
"Please, let me draw a picture of you, if you are not too busy?" Whatever make-belief errand I was heading to was put on hold as I sat down next to him. He prepared his paper and conte and took a deep breath. With his hand, he felt my forehead with the tips of his fingers. They glided down my face to capture profile, caressing my lips. His fingers then brushed my cheek bone and rubbed my jaw while his other hand got down all the information given to him. He knew the curves of my face, and the texture of my skin. We bonded in that moment. He knew what I was feeling; he had to. The drawing was then finished and he handed it to me. I gasped at it; I didn't know what to say.
"You're very beautiful," he said with such certainty.
"So are you," I raised my hand to his tender face and caressed his cheek as he did to me. "You're beautiful."
I walked pass him once and glanced at his drawing. He hand had smudged most of the conte which made the drawing unrecognizable. One would feel sorry at this sight and throw spare change in his direction; but I didn't, I couldn't. He was strong and did not need my pity or charity. His drawings told me that. Their expression spoke louder than words; I can't explain them. I saw the determination and passion in his face. He saw more than any of the day-to-day Joes that strolled by the church, oblivious to this work of art, and unaware of his beauty.
One day, as I once again decided to walk pass the church, I saw him fumbling around the bottom of the steps. He was looking for something; frantically searching for his conte crayon; he was helpless. I stopped in front of him and just looked down. I did not know whether or not he sense that someone was standing over him; maybe he did not care. I wanted to tell him that he was beautiful, that I loved him; that his drawings spoke to me in ways no foreign language could translate.
"Do you need any help?" was all I could offer him. He stopped his search and looked up as if he could see me.
"Actually," he started, "this is rather embarrassing, but I seem to have dropped something; a piece of conte. I've never allowed it to leave my hand but..." he trailed off. He didn't have to finish. I started scanning the steps for that piece of conte. It was the only way I could do something for him and he would be pleased. He would remember that voice that offered him assistance and that voice was mine. That blasted piece of conte was carelessly lying by his foot. I picked it up and clutched it in my hand. Gently, I took his hand and place the conte back where it belonged. There was a moment of silence until I started to leave.
"See you around;" was all I could say.
"Wait!!" he called out to me. I stopped abruptly. "There must be some way I could thank you." I tried to protest and tell him it really was no bother but he was so very persistent. "I'll draw you," he told me.
"Excuse me?" I said in disbelief. I didn't want to sound rude. It would be an honour to have him draw me; to feel his eyes on me. But, could he see me?
"Please, let me draw a picture of you, if you are not too busy?" Whatever make-belief errand I was heading to was put on hold as I sat down next to him. He prepared his paper and conte and took a deep breath. With his hand, he felt my forehead with the tips of his fingers. They glided down my face to capture profile, caressing my lips. His fingers then brushed my cheek bone and rubbed my jaw while his other hand got down all the information given to him. He knew the curves of my face, and the texture of my skin. We bonded in that moment. He knew what I was feeling; he had to. The drawing was then finished and he handed it to me. I gasped at it; I didn't know what to say.
"You're very beautiful," he said with such certainty.
"So are you," I raised my hand to his tender face and caressed his cheek as he did to me. "You're beautiful."
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