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The BeautyOf UnderstandingMaya Jones

Yearning For Words:An IntroductionThe letters littered on a page have always astonished me. They appeared sweet, like eye candy. My mind would take all ofthem, hoarding them in my head since the 2nd grade. I didn’t want it to be just a hobby though.“What does everyone want to be in the future?” Mrs. Short, my teacher had asked.“An astronaut!”“A singer!”“A dog-walker!”“A firefighter!”All such exciting choices for the younger mind. The obvious and stereotypical things that any adolescent would adore. Ididn’t want that though.I wanted to be anauthor.Books have always inspired me, more than any person could. It taught me how to imagine. It taught me vocabulary. Ittaught me how to express feelings through only four words. It taught me the beauty of writing. The beauty ofunderstanding.Any good piece of writing needs it. It needs the author to create characters that are complex, with emotions rangingthroughout the book. They must understand, and put themselves in the shoes of others, to make this effective. Forexample, I’ve seen plenty of stories and shows with interesting concepts, yet the characters lacked any substance. Theirpersonalities were based on one-word stereotypes, which doesn’t represent any human. We are complex beings.So, to write, you have to try and understand. Your words need not to be fancy, or your sentences listed with detailsdistancing a mile long. You just have to listen to people. You have to research. You have to immerse yourself within thestory. You have to think and feel from the character’s point of view.However, I’m still young. I don’t know everything. I don’t know near enough, yet I try to understand because authors didthat for me. They took their delicate time to construct something thought-provoking and emotional, just for the sake thatsomeone might enjoy their words, and find comfort within those gentle pages.That is precisely the reason why I don’t stop writing.Helping at least one person in the end, throughmy letters scattered on the page, is more than enough for me.And, to the person reading this, I hope you feel understood. I hope these stories evoke something from you. I hope theyinspire you to help others. I hope they make you feel emotions. I hope they make you laugh and cry. I hope they make youthink. I hope you enjoy my letters and words as much as I do.And even if you don’t,I’ll still hope for you,and understand.1

Table of ContentsPoems⋄ Pandemonium___________________________________________ 3⋄ The Things I’ve Forgotten, Lost, and Everything In-Between___________________________ 4⋄ Only 100 Words for this Parakeet____________________________________ 5⋄ My Ghost Town____________________________________ 6⋄ What Every First-Born Should Know____________________________________ 7⋄ An Abecedarius for My Lost Prince__________________________________________ 8⋄ Just You, so quickly____________________________________ 9⋄ The Apologies You’ll Never Hear_______________________________ 10Short Stories⋄ Christmas in Redlands_____________________________________ 11⋄ We’re Both Children With Colors_________________________________ 17⋄ Sunburns__________________________________________ 19⋄ Byrd at 7:49____________________________________________ 252

Pan·de·mo·ni·umpan·de·mo·ni·um ∖≈∖ n . 1. The late morning and early evening of pure chaos, within the grounds of ahome: to which undeclared truths and lies are mixed in confusion, for the hell party to ensue. Breathingheavy, / Clamoring and stomping, / Tears hiding behind the howling of pressure, / This is the scene ofcrazy. 2. The immense madness in one’s skull: hovering and building, as if a beautiful storm were about tostrike, except no allure would be found in this monstrosity of a mind. The distraught strings of a heartplucked too far, / The fraying of love gone mad, / Torment of words being twisted too tight, / Theyharshly unravel, / And spew upon anything near reach: anyone brave enough to stand inside the eye of ahurricane, / Oh, how the woes could last forever or stop, / Yet the bomb keeps ticking: even if it’s justexploded, or not.3

The Things i’veForgotten,Lost,andEverything In-BetweenA stuffed snowman: held by my pudgy hands, at achildhood home that's been long forgotten. TheDecade-Old Suave Hairspray: which toppled androlled at a ballet performance in 2010. A miniatureskateboard: which brought about an unwanted andmeaningless crying performance. Two purplering-pops: unopened and opened in the Walmartparking lot. A tropical flip-flop: lost on an escalatorin the San Diego Airport. The Pink Palace Theatre:replaced by a Cracker Barrel in 2021.Every sweet in my sack: given to my bestie onOctober 31st. The layout of my Warehouse: sincethe idea of “fun” had to change. The splattered,heather gray jacket: where it was sent off toGoodwill, or still collecting dust in the closet.Brittany: the only person who chose me first yetmade me feel less. A water bottle: slipped orswiped from my bag after church camp. The beliefthat my family was perfect: after hearing ‘the’argument.Simply the word “love”: since it sounded artificialfrom the mouths of everyone i’ve known.Happiness: replaced by “Hopelessness” in a churchgarage sale, for no apparent reason i could conjure.Social interaction: for when the pandemic came,friends retreated to their phones, yet no onecontacted me. Two hand-made birthday cards:disappeared just like their two recipients. Myundying effort: which died with him approximatelya week ago.The ability to believe the word “I” should be capitalized: since i’ve never felt complete, but rathera dot neatly torn from a line.4

Only 100 Wordsfor this ParakeetBirds soar as feathers drift. Adapting to rise in harbored winds. They sail the seven seas, learningall the tongues of foreign lands. No storm nor strong gale can hinder them. They yearn for nocomfort; only craving the taste of success. A hundred words is nightmarish to them.This Parakeet is different.She plummets as feathers tumble. Adapting to fail in harbored winds. Never sailing the sevenseas; only learning what she is hand-fed. Every storm and strong gale cuts deep. She yearns forcomfort, but the dashing hopes always answer. 100 words is all this Parakeet can muster.5

My Ghost TownHere, in my ghost town,Desolate wooden tracks layUnderneath layers of dust,Footprints upon footprints,Trampled over to the 21st century,Where trains fade.Here, in my ghost town,Rotting homes laid to wasteAmongst the setting orb of light,Shining through mildew-stained windowsProperties resting day and night,Their chipped fountains onYet no water in sight.Here, in my ghost town,Family heritage could crown you popular.Last names were the utmost identifierBut did it ever matter?In a ghost townWhere weeds grow too high,The delusional superiority reaching to noaboundsWithin these undead grounds.Here, in my ghost town,Felines outnumberThe few familiesWho hunker downIn sheer stubbornnessWhile cities expandBeaming with opportunities.Our lone gas stationWith shivering cobwebsCompeting against neon lights and metal skies,This ghost town can no longer offer.Here, in my ghost town,Nothing’s newFrom the cherry treeon Elm StreetTo the public pool,Where a crisp chlorine smellWafts around the dim streetsWhile wandering familiesShuffle their feetThrough these scentsOnly stayingFor cheap rent.Here, in my ghost town,People pretend it is the sameBut their importance means littleWhen the trains fade.What Every First-Born Should Know6

Remember to tidy the hair,Stroke the golden strands back,Slick with hairspray,Nothing out of place.Yes, every first-born shouldknow.Open the bedroom door,Organize the messThat you won’t understand,Draw back those curtains,Reiterate the scriptIn which no one spared a wordTo put on that grand showFor the good of all you know.Yes, every first-born shouldknow.Don’t peep through the keyhole.Especially since you alreadyknowThe trouble lying in, within ahome.Something disguised asbeautiful,Something menacingly soft,In turn resurrected,Something worseSomething confused.A first-born: who thought sheowned a heart of gold,Quickly learned her faultymistake.Gold shouldn’t rust, yet herheart did anyway.Yes, every first-born shouldknow.Always carry a cunning tongue,Sword equipped with hints ofsalt,To keep the mental and physicalaway.Everything will treat you thesame,Don’t wish for change,It will treat you worse anyways.Yes, every first-born shouldknow.Read the letters on a page,Get the gorgeous and drippingscarlett “A”,Always be there on time, unlessthey are late.Tell everything, but never toomuchOr another burden is brought,Onto their shoulders,Which will eventuallyTopple onto yoursBecause you careWay, way, way,Too muchAnyways.Yes, every first-born shouldknow.Assist your sibling,Even at 2 am,For childish mistakes,Created with the lack of lettersAnd the fluorescent lightplaguing her face.Of course, these issues,Were never yours,But reflect onto yourselfAs a “role model”Anyways.Yes, every first-born shouldknow.Don’t “fail”,like she had.“Do your best”Translates to “perfect”.In this householdWhere the first-bornIs considered the 3rd parent,With no real authority.And understand thatThe plaid suitcase,Is yearning to be packed,For the inevitable “failure”You will become to himWhen you changeHis “facts”.Yes, every first-born shouldknow.Cocooned in warmth,From the beginning of birth,Cradled with worn hands,To which never transpiredLater in youth.This shouldn’t have mattered,Should have taught you better,To never blur those eyes withocean,To never act like a 12-year old,To never stress,To never sin,To never fabricate mistakes, as ifYou begged them to come.Sorry, I should have alreadyknown Mother.Sorry, I should have alreadyknown Father.A first-born should have alreadyknown anyway.7

An Abecedarius for My Lost PrinceAlthough nothing yet rests upon your silkyBlonde field of wonder; the lavish place youConjure images of a country girl, with little flare andDazzle to spare, for a northern winds boy whoEchoes in a rink’s arena,Flinging charcoal-colored specks into ripped and taut netsGliding over artificial ice withHails of shouts and a distinct person named “Mj”Insisting to watch and scream beside whileJuggling between thoughts behind the bright fluorescent screen,Killing the depths of her soul inLustful addictions called “Oxy”: aMonstrous elixir which kept her sane as youNourished on the teat of attention,Oblivious to the country girl who wouldPolish your shoes with love andQuirky insights, yet your “highness”Rarely looked down to the peasant after NovemberSeventeenth, addressing aggression insteadTo: “Mj”.Under every faulty error, harshVanilla truth liesWithin his title, whereX-boyfriend replaces prince.Y? Because herZeal never appealed to the new crown:The King of Hockeyand Nothing Else.8

Just You, so quicklyIn an hour, your scarlet hair was dreamy.The wolf cut framing a sharp jawline againstSkin like baby silk: soft and creamy.Overflowing those edges,Fiery eyebrows scattered in ten directions.A scent gliding off your ledges,Enriching every pore with a cherryincense, wafting aroundEyes that speak adventure and “Aire”.The gentle kindling of wood with lime overcastAppears a song from the depths ofYour voice: the chords of the lastGravelly angel, which seduced me into tranquility.In an hour, your scarlet hair tripled my heart’s mass.9

The ApologiesYou’ll Never HearI’m sorry for what had conspired that night. The first evening gloom that turned into distrust andyelling. I’m sorry for beginning to pound on the inside of your skull, begging to be noticed. You were ona couch. Your parents whispering softly enough, to hear my words echoing off your screen. They wonderwhat was going wrong in your head, for you to act this way. I was in a car, dressed up for candy, butwanting nothing other than you. I’m sorry that the tears fell harder, as you suffered more. You tried tohold me from miles away, as my name lit up on your phone screen.I’m sorry for that random Tuesday in November, and that Facebook screen. I shouldn’t haveasked, and you shouldn’t have said yes. I’m sorry that I couldn’t reverse what had been seemingly fixed.I’m sorry that I sent you those voice messages, and those long paragraphs. Pleading, and pleading, andpleading with you, to show the slightest ounce of care. I’m sorry for the bright light of your phone, andthe vibrations of my consistent calls. I’m sorry… if this doesn't sound like a sorry.I’m sorry for loving you. I’m sorry for continuing that love. You were something else. Something‘new’, that I couldn’t figure out. In reality, you were just done with me though. No words of care could beemptied from your cheeks. Long calls have been halted for an eternity. Your eyes have erased me fromyour mind. Yet, I still tried. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for bothering you, when the girls near were muchmore inviting. I’m sorry to your dog, who had to hear my whimpers and pathetic begging through yourdesolate screen. I’m sorry for not stopping, because I just wanted you. I should have realized though. Youare new. I am old. You changed for me, and I changed for you.…I am sorry for not stopping, and I’m sorry if I do stop as well.Because,Christmas in Redlands10

I struggled with my posture. I struggled with making choices. I struggled with deciding what pairof shoes to wear on Sunday. I struggled with putting on a dress. I struggled with school. I struggled tomake clean, neat strokes with a pencil. I struggled on a daily basis.Kathryn didn’t struggle though.She was born on December 19th, in the middle of the night. It was warm, with a blooming coolbreeze. Sand was drifting over the sidewalks when my parents rushed into the hospital. The perfect littleangel slipped out easily, graceful since the day she opened those eyes. I bet her cries were evenmelodious, strung together like harmony. They left that morning, swiftly in and out. The sky was paintedwith watercolors, while sand was still littered everywhere, getting caught in my father’s sandals. Thewaves could be heard from the hospital, crashing gently into one another. Apparently, their hibiscus bushbloomed upon stepping into the house with Kathryn.She took her first steps in this home. Her tiny feet were plastered on the checkered tan tile in thekitchen. Her toes have touched every fuzzy grain embedded in the green carpet. Her nails have brushed upagainst every blue and brown accent wall. Her pudgy palms have touched every curve in the oak railing.She’s been everywhere before me, which at some point, made the home more hers than mine. My feet feltwrong on the tile in the kitchen. The cracks cut my feet and made them cold to the touch. The fuzziness inthe carpet gave me rugburns every weekend. The blue and brown paint on the walls would leave dirtymarks on my nails. The railing would splinter at the immediate touch of my palm.It was weird. I was a stranger living in Redlands. I was a stranger in my own home, with peoplewho had my blood, yet didn’t know me at all. Worst of all, a competition had started. Kathryn had a headstart, making life difficult for me. She got everything, and I’m not talking about gifts under the tree.Kathryn received natural abilities to paint, sew, and skate. Due to this, she succeeded in taking myfamily’s love.If Momma made her homemade lasagna, Kathryn got first pick. I got left with the burnt andcrusty edges. If Dad left work early, Kathryn would get a hug first. I got left with a pat on the shoulder;barely a glance given my way. If Momma bought new pink sandals, Kathryn wore them first. I receivedher worn out and faded blue flip-flops. If Dad bought some powdered donuts at the local Ralph’s, Kathrynate them, with white sugar left on her fingers. I was left to munch on saltines and gummies. Kathryn wascasted in the spotlight with arms wrapped around her. I was tossed into the shadows with the cold breezeto envelope me.“Kathryn this”. “Kathryn that”. Momma was addicted to her name. She could never stopblabbering about her skills; never could stop gushing over her scarlet locks. Momma talked about herevery day. She talked about Kathryn too much.11

All this made me frustrated. I was living in the darkness, like a stranger that knew too much abouta home. I should have despised my parents. The favoritism wasn’t Kathryn’s fault, but my anger had built.It made me irrational. It eventually made me hate her.I grew an opposition to all things involving her.She tried to sew with me, so I hid the green yarn she needed.She tried to talk to me, so I sat there and didn’t make a peep.She tried to curl my hair, so I curled my toes and complained.She tried to paint with me, so I squirted orange on her blank canvas and ran.Eventually, Kathryn gave up. Somewhere it hurt to see that. However, my lack of experience inthis world allowed me to avoid that feeling and never rekindle our relationship. I remember a specificmoment when I really hurt her.It was in the summer. She was 13. I was 10. Our parents wanted us to hang out at the beach withfriends. I brought Christie and Sammy. Kathryn brought her book. It was a normal day. However, as thesun started to set, Kathryn began annoying me.“We need to head home soon,” she said. Kathryn was standing over me. Her arms crossed. Herfinger intertwined in the holes of her purple sweatshirt.I was tapping Sammy’s blue bucket, about to lift it off to reveal my sandcastle, when shesuddenly grabbed my arm. “Time to go Mari,” as she looked upon me with an intense expression.I ripped my hand away. “No,” I said in protest. Why did she have to be so annoying?“What do you mean no. We got to go. I’m not walking home in the dark,” Kathryn said. She wasgripping her sleeves now, shivering in her lilac sweatshirt.I just sat there, continuing to shape my sandcastle. I drifted my hands over it, feeling the softgrains loosen and tumble under my fingertips. It was relaxing. Kathryn hovering right over me was not.“Can’t you just walk home by yourself. I’ll be there in a few,” I said.12

She looked at me incredulously. “You're 10. No, I can’t.”“You’re 13. What’s the difference,” I snapped back, glaring at her. Even at this moment, Kathrynstill looked beautiful. It made me angrier, as I sat in my yellow swimsuit, covered in sand.“The difference is 3 years,” Kathryn said but harshly swiped her hand in the air to cut me off,“And yeah, I’m not an adult. I’m not your parent. However, momma told us to head home before it gotdark, so we are going. Right. Now.” She put a harsh emphasis on those last two words.I ripped the blue pail in my hands away from her and turned around. I started piling more sandinto the bucket as she began to get angrier.“You do realize I can’t leave you,” she said as her feet sunk into the sand, “I just don’t understandwhy you can’t listen. I’m your older sister!”Kathryn sighed to herself as she gently patted her thigh in thought.“I care about you Mari,” she stated as she reached for my arm again, “Please let’s just-”I swiftly turned around and slapped her hand away. “NO! You’re my sister by blood and by bloodalone. I don’t love you. I don’t care for you. You are a stranger to me. Now why can’t you just go away.”I yelled at her.Then, I promptly sat back down and stared at my deformed sandcastle. My back was to her now.Space left between us.13

“Just go get your new medal,” I mumbled, “Or if I’m lucky you’ll bury yourself in that sand.”Silence. Just silence. She didn’t say anything. It was peaceful.…Until she started crying.Little whispers of heartbreak could be heard, even above the crashing of the waves. I heard thesand shift beneath me, almost begging me to move along. I eventually stood up and walked home withher… in complete silence though.From that day on, Kathryn started to shut up around me, especially after her many newappointments with doctors. She actually didn't want to talk with anyone. Her words to momma and dadwere soft and didn’t carry much weight. Her shoulders were hunched over, almost as if an invisible forcewas pressuring her down. Whenever I went down the stairs for dinner, Kathryn never followed. WheneverI picked up a pencil, Kathryn left her paint brushes dry.…They stayed dry.• • • • • •• • • • • •It was Christmas time when I noticed her hair slowly thinning. It was Christmas time wheneverything became quieter. It was Christmas time when I started really missing her. It was Christmas timewhen I tried.I came into her room, a paintbrush in hand with a bottle of “Applegate Orange” paint. She waslying in bed, softly breathing, while looking out her window. The pinpricks in her arms were visible, sinceneedles were always prodding her. It was supposed to help her, but all I could see was pain and the hair onthe floor.Some pillows she had sewn were sitting on her desk. They looked dusty and sad, even though thelace on it was delicate and ornate. The happy teddy bears on the front almost looked glum. The deepgreens and sparkly reds had faded along with the paintings scattered amongst her room.Kathryn looked up as I entered. She looked frail, like a pencil. It made me quite sad. I tried askingif she wanted to paint. She hadn’t picked up a brush in forever, so I wasn’t surprised to hear her say, “No.Thank you for asking though.”14

Eventually, I left the room with the idea of painting something for her. I couldn’t make thebeautiful strokes she could, but somewhere deep down I knew Kathryn would appreciate anything.However, each time I dipped the tip into the orange paint, I didn’t know she began to gasp more. Thebrush hit the paper, shaky and rough, until it looked done. I held it up to the light, proud of myself.However, there was no time to think. My momma screamed from Kathryn’s room. I heard my dadthump up the stairs to help. I was grabbed and told to start the car. We were out the door in seconds. Wewere in the hospital for hours. But, by morning, we were back out. Sand drifted over the sidewalks,almost too much. The sky was a dreary gray, and the waves could be heard roaring into my eardrums.Tears streamed down my momma’s face, because she knew Kathryn would not grace her presence in ourhome ever again.Nevertheless, we opened up the door to our home. The green carpet appeared scratchy more thanfuzzy. The walls were chipping their paint. The kitchen tile kissed our feet with grief. As I trudged up thestairs, the railing smoothed above my palm, until I made it to the landing. I just stood there. Until Iworked up the courage to pass by her room. Guilt and grief taking a hold of me.I walked onto my carpet, my toes digging into it, keeping me in place. I noticed my artwork first.It was still laying on my bed. Solemn and alone. The orange hibiscus on it didn’t feel like home.• • • • • •• • • • • •I still struggle with my posture, since my heart started weighing 10 lbs. I have too many choicesof shoes now. I struggle with slipping on that black dress. I struggle with attending school. I struggled topick up a pencil, because Kathryn’s hands were on every single one. I still struggle daily.15

And Kathryn did understand the definition of struggling.The difference is Momma doesn't talk anymore.She doesn't talk about Kathryn enough.16

________We’re Both Children____________________With Colors___________I picked up a crayon as I heard the door slam. The blank sheet laid in front of me. Blue, that wasthe color smeared in between my fingers. It was the prettiest to me. The color reminds me of somethingsmooth and soft, like the sky, when it reaches that morning dew. Sometimes the ocean comes to mind.Curves with swirls, and an endless number of blues reaching deep beneath the salty white that erupts andcrashes.Father didn’t agree with me though. He never had a favorite color. Father actually hates mycrayons, especially the blue ones… or maybe Father just didn’t like the drawings. He would take and rip.He would smoke and slam. He would fry and lie. Father did many things. However, I did many things hedidn’t like. He told me that made it “okay and right”.Questions. I asked too many questions. Ocean. I loved the ocean too much. Colors. My obsession withcolors was too much.I looked wrong too. Something takes my hues and shades. My skin looks patchy, like a drawingno one finished. I didn't mind it. Father did. He called me a faded washout. He blamed it on the ocean.“Your love of surfing will drain all that skin until your void,” he’d say. “Reality’s trying to suck all thosecolors from ya. Black and white you’ll be, before em’ waves wash you out boy.”I never understood that though. How could the waves do this to me? I love them. So why wouldthey hurt me? Eventually, my peers looked upon me incredulously. They told me how “stupid” I was. Theocean makes me crystal, clean, and white? How dumb do you have to be? How dumb did I have to be tobelieve him?17

Father was a liar,and now I am dumb.Nevertheless, I kept diving into the ocean, even when Father found my board. He broke it and leftit in the garbage. I was sad, but that didn't stop me. I came back home everyday soaking, with sand liningthe edges of my feet. My red hair would drip on the concrete right outside room 212, which is no biggerthan a cardboard box. The “Welcome” mat was more of a dirty warning. I would trudge my way into thedingy apartment, where my salty scent would mix with the rich smoke that encompassed the place, whichI hated.I despised the charcoal fumes. Father never knew how to stop, never really tried. He took themeverywhere, just like I did with my crayons. He’d pull one out, sliding it out of the thin, cream box. Minewere much more appetizing to look at. His were much more addictive to use.He would yell at me if I touched them. I would cry if he broke mine. He would lie to hurt me. Iwould lie to avoid getting hurt. He loves using his salty tongue. I love the salt that shifts within the sea.He turns bright red. I turn into a pale misfit. He loves nothing, including me. I love everything, but thesmoke that possesses him.And,In the end, Father hurts.In the end, I am hurt.In the end, Father loves his cigarettes.In the end, I love my crayons.In the end, Father yells for fun.In the end, I yell to fight.In the end,we are both children,with colors,during the day,and night.18

☀S u n b u r n s☀His pool was a mossy, algae-filled mess, located in the slums of L.A. I called it a miniature “under the sea”jungle amongst the crack-ridden crazies. Saturday nights, Tuesday evenings, Friday mornings, springtime blues, andChristmas dues, were spent by this side of the pool. It was a safe space, from all the chaos.We used to wade in it, splashing around in circles. We had tacked a musty red carpet to the small diving board, performingfake fashion shows in thrifted clothes from the local Savors. Other times we’d sit on the pool steps and study for Mr.Rick’s quizzes. I would say the water was infested with a form of crack that heightened my brain senses, allowing me toretain information better. Myles would laugh and say, “Asana, my dear, it must do the opposite for me then.” We’d haveintense races around the detailed sidewalk or chill with his mother while watching “Parks and Recreation”, for themillionth time. She was the best; especially at making those vibrant, blueberry macarons.As years had gone by, everything deteriorated though. The cracked pavement worsened as the weather grew moreunpredictable. We would scrape ourselves or cut our palms on shards of glass. I’d assume from beer bottles, littered in thebackyard from Myles’s father now. Hopefully, just from him. His mother was one foot out the door. I hadn’t gone insidethe house since the yelling began. I forgot the taste of her blueberry pastries. And Myles… he forgot the taste of manythings.My relationship with my parents wasn’t any better. Their controlling nature was apparent in my eyes more than ever. Theysaid Satan was in me: for not enjoying church, for being too forgetful, for being ungrateful of my life, and for hanging outwith ‘him’. However, I realized without Myles being in my life, I wouldn’t have had a so-called “childhood”. He was mybest friend. I’d do anything for him. So, even if we had rough patches of silence, I was still right beside him.-------------- ☀ -------------Today wasn’t anything special. It was June 11th, 5pm. Sun was out, hot and bright. The smog was as apparent asever. Myles was acting weird though.“Do you ever think about taking a dip in the pool,” I asked, as he flipped a piece of his golden-brown hair to the side. Hischeap yellow flip flops precariously hung onto his feet as his legs dangled over the aqueous jungle. His hands looked softin the golden light, but his eyes were dull.“Never. Only interesting to observe,” Myles replied. He appeared drowsy. His pupils were small, and his bent over posturemade it seem like he was going to fall in at any moment.I chuckled. “No, I meant,” pointing far over his fence where the local pool is, “to the actual, functioning, bowl of water.”He said nothing. Absolutely nothing this time. Myles just looked dazed at the few feet of water, swirling his foot around init now. His yellow flip-flop fell off. No reaction.19

Eventually, Myles spoke. “I feel like a failure,” he said. His flip-flop kept traveling farther and farther away, like the littleboat we tried to float 3 months ago. It was at the bottom now. You could still see the rust and the chipped paint on it, evenfrom its depth. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stared at the water with him.He sighed. “Ya know, somedays I wish to be that boat. All the way down there, complete and utter silence. It must benice,” he said, facing me now. A faint smile appeared on his face. Nothing was right. Yet he told me it was.A month later, he told me about his mom leaving.I had to find out about his attempts on my own.-------------- ☀ -------------It had been two weeks of grueling ‘vacay time’, with my parents. I tried staying home, especially for Myles. Myparents had played dumb, saying I needed to relax and focus on my future. (There was no relaxing, of course). They knewabout him as well. I heard their pesky voices talking about his sinful actions and diseased mind. I despised them for that:for calling him dirty and unworthy of the Lord’s love. I adored Myles, and deep down, I hoped God wasn’t like myparents.The first day back, I tripped over a beer bottle. A pile now stacked in the corner of what used to be his mother’s petiteflower bed. He was sitting in the sun, by the pool. Same yellow flip-flops as that day. June 11th. I could picture it almostperfectly now. I tried greeting him but was met with more silence. A bottle sat upright beside him. Unopened. Noticing mywandering eyes, Myles took a glance at me.“Just in case,” he said quietly.“In case of… what,” I asked. I placed a hand on his arm. He flinched under my touch, and I noticed just how painfully redand blistered his skin was.“Sunburn,” he said automatically, taking his arm away from my reach, “It’s just some alcohol and a sunburn.”Dear God, I wish it was only those two things.-------------- ☀ -------------Two weeks had passed by. Each day was extremely hot. However, this didn’t stop Myles from laying on his patioconcrete. The cracked and rough pavement beneath him, which burnt his back into melted shards of skin.The sunburnsdidn’t stop him though. He’d just lay there. Myles would just sit in that hot burning mess.On multiple occasions I offered to put sunscreen on him. Each time I received the same automated response. “I already hadAsana.” He’d then point to a lonely tube of “Sun’s Up”. However, more recently his skin looked fiery red. It wasn’t evenpeeling, because the sun’s rays would constantly keep burning it.20

The sunscreen was found at the bottom of the pool. Beer bottles were now littered around him. His common sense haddisappeared. His gorgeous, creamy skin was gone. All that was left was an angry and paranoid red husk of a human.Small things began to annoy him. I rode my tan bicycle over to his house, and left it on the fence leading to his backyard.Myles lunged at me and told me not to keep it there. Apparently it was “too dangerous”, so I began walking over.However, on a random Tuesday he noticed my flip-flops were yellow. Myles literally yanked them off my feet when I satdown and threw them into his degrading pool.“What the hell Myles,” I shouted, indignant at him, “The pool isn’t a trash can.”I began to trudge my way down the steps. Slimy, algae started to creep up my calves as I waded in for myflip-flops. “I’m probably going to get a disease now,” I said as my feet touched something jelly-like, “So if that was yourgoal- well- congrats.”Pulling myself out of the pool, I retrieved the hose from the side of his house. It spayed in two different directions, but itworked well enough to clean myself and the flip-flops.“Well, are you gonna explain yourself-,” I was beginning to say before turning around. Myles was two sheets to the wind.His own flip flops hung loose on his feet, with a bottle of juice in his left hand. I sighed and promptly went over to draghim back inside. However, the smell hit me first. Burning toxicity filled the air. It was clear to me that no fruity liquid wasbeing drunk, and that the sunscreen was not being applied.Sunburns.Why does he love them?-------------- ☀ -------------Months have gone by now. I’ve flipped the calendar on my fridge too many times. I’ve written down plenty ofstuff. I’ve done plenty of stuff. A lot has changed. Myles has stayed the same though.He still curses me out sometimes for wearing the same color of flip flops. The few times I’d ride my bike, Myleswould get paranoid. He’d run up to me with bloodshot eyes, telling me to pack it up, and run along. Who knew thateverything I’d do would be an issue now?It became exhausting nevertheless. The whole atmosphere had changed. The cracked concrete became worsebecause of the glass. The beer bottles were everywhere. They were overflowing his mother’s old garden. They were sittingin piles by the gate. Sometimes he’d throw the bottles into our underwater jungle. This would infuriate me, because Myleswas single-handedly ruining the one thing we had untouched from what remained on the streets.21

We argued, and we continued to argue. One day Myles took a hammer and started pounding on the diving board inretaliation. I screamed at him to stop. He didn’t listen. I came back a couple days later, to find it cracked, demolished, andwhining for repairs. Myles couldn’t even look at me.It got worse when I started not coming every day. He thought I was talking to the punk-head down the street, getting highwith him. Myles accused me a lot. He... hurt me a lot. I didn’t want to go. I wasn’t going to abandon him, like everyoneelse had.What I didn’t understand was that Myles abandoned himself a long time ago too.-------------- ☀ -------------It was late January, when I confronted him again. I tried. I wanted a solution to his problem. I suggested a rehabcenter. However, he clenched his fists. His eyes were watering. The tears were running down his reddened face. Hisbloodshot eyes matched his demeanor. I wished it hadn’t.“How could you ever fucking understand,” Myles stated through his teeth. “You could never, ever understand thethings I’ve been through. I can’t just go to that place. They don’t fix everything. They don’t fix anything.”He was a meter away from the pool’s ledge.“I’ve been on my own. The only thing I had was my mom, and she god damn left Asana. I’ve got nothing,” hechuckled and ran his fingers through his hair, “You- you got it all. You’re some perfect little doll, produced out of thin air.Parents that are always around- Perfect-”.“They aren’t perfect.” I was beginning to get upset. How could he even dare to assume this? I shook my head. “Fuckperfect. They are controlling and keep me-”“-Keep you what Asana,” he snapped, interrupting me. “What? From being a fuck up? They pay for your shit. They gotyour back. My dad HITS MINE. My mom hasn’t touched mine in 7 fucking months. She was the only reason I fuckingtried at anything. The only reason I’d lather sunscreen on my arms and keep myself from replicating the monstrosity livingin my own goddamn house!”He was 2 feet from the edge.“You think I asked for that? To be shaped and controlled by every aspect of everything: God, parents, friends? You reallythink I’m just magically perfect, like a preening Barbie doll-”“Oh, spare me the bullshit. You got it all. You’re just ungrateful and don’t care about anything but yourself,” Mylesinterrupted.22

Something ticked in me. A rage I couldn’t even control. It was like my heart was a time bomb, as blood seeped into everycorner of my being.“NO! All I’ve done is care. I cared and cared and still care for you. I-I constantly was around you, to help you,” I shouted.My voice was growing hoarse though. My words became shaky, as tears began to tumble down my cheeks. The salt fromthem burned my skin.“I tried being here. I tried giving solutions. I tried calling the damn rehab multiple times, just for you. I tried getting advicefor you, from them, just in case “you thought it was bullshit”. I have really fucking tried Myles. But you're too intoxicatedto ever notice anything,” I said, pausing to regain my control before continuing on.“You… you just don’t understand how much that takes a toll on another person. You can’t fucking understand the level ofstress I’m under, especially with you never getting better.” Tears were leaking out of my eyes now. “I’ve been sitting byyour side, thinking I could fix you. I’ve been burning with you. And all I ask for is peace, Myles.”He looked at me in pain. “What do you even mean by that,” he asked, his whole-body trembling. His voice was laced withanger, but his eyes conveyed a different emotion.“I just want you better,” I gently said this time. “The arguing is toxic; It hurts both of us so much. We just need-” \“-no.”He was a foot away from the pool now.Myles frowned and his bottom lip quivered. “I’m sorry. I can’t,” he started, fumbling over his own words. “I-I can’t fixmyself. I’m too far gone, and it won’t matter anyways.” He looked up at the sky, hands clenched together now. He lookedlike he was praying, maybe for the moon to disappear and the sun to come.“...Goodnight Asana,” Myles finally said, “He’ll be here soon.”He was a mere few inches away now.“No, I’m not leaving until I know you’ll be ok.”He chuckled, and then thankfully sat down. Car headlights could be seen coming into the driveway now. “You need to go,Asana.” Myles hugged his bruised and burnt knees to his chest. “This time you actually need to go.”I stared at him.“Myles, your father doesn't bother me” I said, as I heard the engine sputter and die. The cursing thatfollowed was even louder. However, Myles didn’t even flinch. I did though.He looked at me. His yellow flip-flops, hanging precariously off his feet. His golden-brown hair shined brightly with thesmoggy moon’s glow. Under this dark veil his skin looked healthy, almost too white. The bags under his eyes couldn’t beseen, but I knew they hadn’t disappeared. His t-shirt hung loose to his body, and his hands looked rough.23

He gave me that smile. The same smile I received, on June 11th, at 5pm.He told me he was okay. He told me to go home, and that he’ll try.And I was ok.Until I got the call.Until I got his letter.Until I saw the vacancy sign slapped onto his front door.Until his headstone was placed on the ground.I was ok.Until I read the last few words from Myles,Which was written on a yellow post-it note,With our tiny, sunken ship left on top of itStaining the page with algae and a musty liquid:“I’m sorry Asana. I trulyhope you’ll find your peace.”Spoiler: I didn’t find it.I made sunburns of my own.24

Byrd at 7:49Every day I’d find myself at this bus stop. It’s an old one, located right outside the city limits ofBoulder City. I hadn’t realized it was even still operating on a route, due to its rustic and unsteady lookingstructure. Graffiti could be seen on the metal, and engraved initials of couples could be made out still.Very few posters were left on the structure, including one about some accident that happened. I couldnever finish reading it, due to the words being blurred on the page (for some odd reason), and thenbecause he’d come. The flapping of his wings always distracted me, as if trumpets were declaring aroyal’s presence at their banquet. Except, in this case, it was just this humanoid bird coming to this busstop. Every day, at 7:49.He went by “Byrd,” or well that was one of the few things I had asked and got a reply. Most timeshe would stare off somewhere, mumbling to himself about “what’s coming next”, “deadline”, “need togo”, and so on. His creamy wings were always ruffled. His legs had this sense of sturdiness, but thebruises and few scars told a different story. Byrd had an off-white base with deep blues and grays mixedinto his feathered coat. He had the stance of a human, and the head of a bird.Most would be afraid of this hybrid. I was unnerved at first, but he kept coming, so I grew used tothis. What I couldn’t get used to was Byrd’s eyes. The few times he’d respond to my questions I’d know,because they’d pierce mine. Most birds have black eyes, while humans have irises. He had neither.Instead, two symmetrical white circles were buried into his feathers. It looked as if a toddler had taken apencil and made them, which made it even more eerie. Nothing but white.The bus would come at 8:01 sharp. This is when I’d promptly get on, never really knowing whereit would take me. The fact alone should have concerned me, but it wasn’t even registering as a problem inmy mind. All I could think about was Bryd. I’d look over my shoulder, seeing if Byrd would drag thosetwo legs on up the bus. He never had but would always tell me a certain phrase before I’d go.“Don’t keep running.”------------------------------------It’s the _____th day, which concerns me. Why couldn’t I remember the date? Nevertheless, Idragged my Converse through the dirt as I trudged my way to the bus stop, again. The blue sky was sharpand concise. The stars were stunning. They sang their bright light all the way to Pluto. However, staring at25

one of them for no longer than a few seconds would blind me. The smell that hit me next was new. Itdidn’t waft gently, it knocked me out instantly, suffocating my nostrils. A pain enveloped in my heart,almost restarting it.Falling on my knees, clutching my chest. Shaking. Trembling. The brightness from the starsseemed to be closing in, putting a spotlight on my frail body. It was as if they yearned for a performance,but all I could do was shake. Voices started echoing throughout the insides of my head. Words withurgency and pain were all my ears took in, until the pain ebbed away. The smell drifted away, like thesmoke from burning incense, and when it did, realization hit me. Feeling and smelling : that was the firsttime it happened in a while.I rubbed my hands in the sand, but didn’t feel the grains shift between my fingers. I groaned andlaid back on my knees, stretching my arms. Frustration and numerous thoughts were pouring through myheadspace.The cracked concrete of the bus stop was firm under- wait.I abruptly stopped and jumped up. One of my Converse had come off in a panic. Scrambling, Ireaffirmed that the bus stop’s cracked cement was under me. My fingertips brushed the metal structure,coming away crusty and orange from rust.And again, everything was the same. The graffiti was still covering every inch of metal it couldconsume. The engravings stood out clear and sharp, despite the rust. The same poster laid awake, flappingin the gentle wind. The words were still unreadable, but a few showed true.“Accident on Road 79 leaves—---- he—---- age 19—----authorities are under—--gone.”Throughout the whole paper, that was all I could read, which was comforting. Everything was thesame, except the pain, the smell, and the unexplained teleportation.“How did I get here so quickly, every day,” I mumbled to myself. Questions were starting to pileup, but many were extinguished when Byrd came flapping in, at exactly 7:49.Again, he stood there. His white eyes staring off into the equally bright stars. How he could dothat for minutes on end was oblivious to me. The mumbling started off shortly after.26

“What’s coming next… need to go,” he mumbled.“Go, go, go, go, go, get, and go,” he mumbled.“Need the… money... Can’t,” he mumbled.“Got to go before…,” he mumbled.That was all I could ever understand. The rest of what came out of his dull beak was obscured bysome unknown force. It wasn’t like T.V static. I couldn’t even explain it. It was like Byrd couldn’t evensay it correctly.“_______,” he mumbled.My ears perked at this. Whatever he said, it was oddly familiar, and I wanted answers.“Byrd.” No response.“Byrd.” Again, nothing.“BYRD.” His eyes didn’t tear away from the sky.I touched his wing instead. Soft to my delicate palm, but goosebumps traveled up my left arm andacross my whole body. His head snapped violently towards me. However, Byrd’s eyes stayed staring offinto the sky. It was uncanny. I yanked my hand away, stumbling backwards. His eyes locked onto minenow. The circles looked intense, scratchy, vibrating almost off his face.“Don’t keep running,” he said, perfectly clear.It was 8:01. The bus rolled in. I got up in a hurry. The lone Converse left on the station with Byrdas I ran up the steps. He was still staring at me blankly when I turned around.27

“Please,” he said.The bus started rolling away though. Its structure squeaked, carrying me further from Bryd.However, throughout that chaos, I hadn’t realized that both of my Converse were snug on my feet again.Questions, Questions, Questions. Never answered. Throughout 7:49-8:01.-----------------------------------Nothing weird had happened yet today. I was at the bus stop, with the rust, graffiti, engravedletters, and the paper. The paper…now that was different. It stood plastered to the wall, even though thebreeze should have lifted it by now. The legible phrases had changed.“Administered 8 mg…. Nothing…. Can’t find…. GET HIM…. rate…. Fluctuating…. gone”.The font was different as well. It looked dead, sad, depressing. More words started to surface, so Itried yanking the paper off the board, to read it more clearly. Answers. Maybe I’ll get answers. It didn’twant to budge though. I dug my nails under it and yanked. Nothing happened. I hadn’t even torn thesheet. Frustrated with the thin material I began to grip, pull, and bang on the structure to which it wasattached too.I hadn’t even noticed when Byrd flapped in, until he said, “Are you fighting it because it gaveyou a paper cut or….?”I turned slowly to face him. My eyes took in every inch of his creamy feathers, mixed with deepblues and grays. His legs are strong but bruised. Eyes were the same white circles, but he was speaking.Clearly. To me.Byrd cocked his head to the side, as if this gesture would elucidate a response from me. I stillstared at him, mouth practically gaping open in shock. He ruffled his feathers, like how a human shivers,and then took to looking at the sky again.28

“It’s beautiful,” he said, shuffling his elegant claws around in the red sand as he gazed. His whitecircles seemed to get brighter just looking at the galaxy plastered above. However, it slowly grewapparent that sadness was creeping into his features. Then Byrd added, “Too bad it’s fake.”Confusion won. He had stumped me really well with that statement. “What do you mean fake,” Iasked, curiosity overwhelming me.“I don’t know. I just know that it’s fake for both of us, just in- well-,” he paused beforecontinuing, “-different ways. You know?”“No. I don’t know,” I replied. He gave a curt yet sad nod to my answer, “I had a feeling you mightnot know…”Silence.“I honestly- Byrd- I need help,” I blurted over the quietness. All I could think about was gettinganswers from him.“Everything is weird. It is confusing. I feel stuck in this place, but at the same time I’m too scaredto leave,” I continued, gripping my hands on my thighs. “You feel different, yet the same. You feelcomforting, yet dangerous. You’re like this stuffed animal, but glass has replaced your cotton guts.”Byrd looked upon me. He analyzed my movements, as his feathers rustled in the wind. Hisexpression showed great sympathy, but his eyes appeared void of all emotion. Something about that washighly familiar.I sighed. “Nevertheless, I’m overwhelmed. The constant reminder of this spot sickens me. Itsickens me how I can’t pull myself to move on. Everything is always the same. It is driving me toinsanity. The sharp pain and fluorescent stars don’t blend in with the environment here. The voices thatbounce and scream in nonsensical urgency don’t make sense either. I just…well…,” I said as my bottomlip began to quiver.29

“Nothing has changed here, including me…,” I spoke softly as I shifted my feet on theconcrete,“...Do you think that might be the problem?”Byrd stared at me, until he turned away. His beak opened and closed once, before words cameout. “Maybe… you are ready to stop running then,” he said matter-of-factly, like it was obvious to beginwith. However, his face showed great remorse.I let out a huff of air. “Why do you keep telling me that? ‘Stop Running’. I don’t understand-”“Exactly. You wouldn’t,” he interrupted abruptly, “It was never for you to learn, or get meddledup with.” His feathers ruffled again, and the circular whites started observing the bus, which was cominginto the station. 8:01, yet again.“...I’m so sorry for bringing you into my mess,” Byrd said, gentle as the breeze by an ocean.Byrd didn’t say anything else after that though. The doors swung open (and reluctantly) I climbedthe steps. The interior was different though. It felt…off. The radio, which used to be dead, came to life ina heartbeat. The doors creaked shut, but when glancing out the window, Bryd wasn’t there. Turning to myleft, he now stood at the front of the bus.Bryd looked menacing, tired, crazed, sad, and mad all at once. I hadn’t thought anyone could, butsomething must have made him this way. Something about him was making me feel a way too. Thegoosebumps trailed up my arms again. My heart was racing faster and faster. I needed a way off this bus.His eyes connected with mine though, keeping me in place.The bus rocked back and forth as the sky seemed to be falling outside. The stars were flickeringon and off. The sounds started becoming vicious. The radio suddenly grew louder, without Byrd evenmoving an inch. It switched from a variety of stations in a matter of minutes. Country to Pop, Rock toElectro Swing, Jazz to Patsy Cline, The Beatles to One Direction, and it went on. My ears began to bleed,especially when the beeping began. It was radiating from outside the bus. I swore the whole world couldhear it. The smell of metal flooded my nostrils. I couldn’t breathe.30

It was becoming too much. The sharp pain was back. It hit me again and again, electrifying me.The bus was now swerving violently from side to side. The radio was picking up speed. The sky wasclosing in on the bus rapidly, as the stars began to grow brighter. Everything was vibrating, except Byrd.He stood unnaturally still. I could hear screaming, laughing, and yelling above all the other stuff now. Itdrowned out the beeping from the world and the radio. It was echoing from Byrd’s body, even though hisbeak was clamped shut.His piercing white circles looked down on me. Shivering and shaking. It was still 8:01.Then, everything stopped. The bus halted. The beeping was gentle. The radio died. Byrd’scacophony of chaos and crying was shut down. The blue was gone, and the stars seemed just right. Theshock in my chest was slowly ebbing away, as the bus doors creaked open. Boulder City was on the otherside. A red-plus sign blinking on and off stood true next to the letters.However, I didn’t know if I should get off. Byrd was definitely something I should get awayfrom, but Boulder City felt wrong to return to. Yet it felt real though. This was feeling real. And maybethat’s why my Converse clung to my feet this time, confidently marching my body right out those doors.Right past Bryd, who hadn’t said a word.Then, by some miracle, he spoke.“I’m glad you stopped running,” he said. His smile was soft. It allowed the corners of his beak torise, yet sadness had crept into his features.One of my feet remained on the bus, yet Bryd started to appear blurry. He kept on smiling though,almost persuading me to take my foot off.And I did.31

My eyes fluttered open to reality.Faces hovering over me.Bright, fluorescent light consumed me.A monitor beeped to the side.Someone was playing music down the hall.A defibrillator was sitting to my left.And Byrd would never flap his wings again.Because,That Byrd, at 7:49,Sat driving and laughing and arguing.And that Byrd, at 8:01,Swerved and rolled and crashed.And that Byrd, at *unknown time*,Laid rigid and pulled that scarlet line taught.And that Byrd, at *months later*,Made me wake up, lay there broken, pick a shovel, and say bye.So,Good-Bye,Scottie Byrd: My cousin,who was so high,flying even,at 7:49.32