Charcoal is Messy
Excerpt from my work in progress illustrated novella
Dance with me! Mom demands.
We’re in the kitchen. One of the white breakfast nook chairs is laying sadly over on its side in the middle of the floor. It looks dead.
I am exhausted by her energy, I feel drained by her lightening bolts and gutted by her particles.
My face is red and i think i may have a fever. Or maybe it’s just my insides that are on fire, boiling my brains so I can’t think straight.
Her fluffy pink robe is open. It looks so soft; I wish I could hug it. But if I did, I’d have to hug her too. So I don’t move.
Her face is all lit up and spastic, with her beautiful, bright green eyes glued wide open.
I’ve never seen her blink. But she must blink. Doesn’t everyone blink?
I am a Sierra Mackerel thrown back into her face
but I'd rather be a Blacktip shark.
I know she’s dangerous, and she wants out.
But I can’t think about that now.
i’m too sad about the artichokes with sharp edges.
i’m too mad about the kelp i can’t hear.
but mostly, I’m empty about the mind that used to live in the culdesak down the street.
“There is no music,” I say.
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XO, annie
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