Her, The Smart Girl
“That’s not fair. You had her on your side.”
That’s what they say when they lose.
“You wouldn’t be complaining if you had me,”
the smart girl mutters,
her face scrunched up in a scowl.
When someone beats her in a game of academics,
they all cheer like she is a fire whose flame they’ve killed.
They only know her as Her, the smart girl.
She is the one they only talk to if they need something.
She is Her, the smart girl.
She likes books, that makes her weird.
Don’t get her wrong, she loves her intellect,
being the smartest, but there is so much more.
They don’t try to get to know the girl with random facts.
Rarely do they see beyond Her, the smart girl.
They don’t see the strong girl,
the girl who thinks it’s weak
to cry in front of people.
They don’t look beyond the nerd,
so they won’t ever see the geek within.
The girl that rants about how Dis feels
now that her brother and her sons are dead,
about how Spock and Bones always banter with each other,
and about Fred’s unjustified death, leaving George behind.
The girl that gets so excited she rambles on and on.
She plays with toy guns and swords.
She also plays with words.
She stays up too late, fabricating fantasies.
She listens to music, all day if she could.
She’s still Her, the smart girl.
Documentaries of Egypt and of Mysteries at the Museum fill her DVR,
but when she’s with those she loves,
she doesn’t have to be just Her, the smart girl.
When others are with her, she is quiet and sullen,
but at home or with her family and friends,
she is loud and hyper, talking excitedly about
Lord of the Rings, Star Trek, Criminal Minds, Supernatural,
books that she’s read, ones she will read, bands, music,
and sometimes, plain weird facts she doesn’t know how she learned.
Sometimes she just wants to be alone and sing as loud as she can.
They wouldn’t recognize Her, the smart girl.
She is different, not what they think.
She can feel.
Sometimes, their meaningless words and actions
burn like dry ice.
She is far more than just a brain,
but they don’t know that, not yet.
She fears asking for help.
She’ll never know everything,
so she asks for assistance.
Sharp comments slash, wisecracks about her wit,
or just shocked eyes, like they can’t believe she doesn’t understand.
Maybe someday they will learn to see more than Her, the smart girl,
but it will be through stained glass.
Why should they care about Her, the smart girl?
Why should they care that she hurts?
Bronze Savior
Petting the strange dog, Courtney lounged on the leather sofa, having finished the to do list left by his owners. Suds, a Komondor, needed more extensive care than most other canines she had dog-sat. As she ran her hand through his stringy, mop-like pearly hair, she repeatedly browsed through the channels on the 32-inch flat screen TV, hoping one of these times something worth watching would appear. Courtney flipped her dirty blonde hair behind her back and disappointedly sighed. Shutting off the television, she stood and took her smartphone off of the chewed charger.
She lied down next to Suds, settling in a friendly, companionable silence. Her face towards the ceiling, the teenager held her phone above her body, browsing Pinterest with bored eyes. The sound of the front door opening ripped away her tired reverie. Mr. and Mrs. Gomez stepped into the house wearing their finest clothes. Courtney jumped to her feet, and went after Suds, who had run to the front hallway as soon as his beloved owners entered the dwelling.
“Hello Mr. Gomez, Mrs. Gomez,” Courtney said with a small, insecure smile.
“Hi, dear, it looks like you did a great job taking care of Suds for us. I’m going to go make sure you did everything, but I’m sure you did, and I’ll get my checkbook,” Mrs. Gomez replied beaming at the young girl.
As Mrs. Gomez went off to run her check list, Mr. Gomez left through the kitchen to where the bedroom was, leaving her standing awkwardly in the hallway. Suds had run off after the aging woman and left Courtney in her discomfort. Going back to the living room, she gathered her charger and her chestnut purse. Once more, she trekked to the front door.
“Looks like everything is in order. Thank you so much, Courtney. It means so much to me that you would come and dogsit Suds, especially so last minute. Here’s the check, now, you buy yourself something nice with that,” Mrs. Gomez said, returning to the entryway.
“It was no problem at all. Suds is really a great dog; I loved watching him,” the hazel eyed girl replied, fidgeting with her hands. “I should be going home now, thank you.”
“Thanks again, dear, be careful.”
Opening the mahogany door, Courtney was surprised by how much the sky had dimmed and how silent the night was: no zooming cars, no animals making bizarre sounds in the dark, the new moon shining no light onto the city. She treaded down the front steps, glancing in both directions before descending onto the fracturing sidewalk. Turning to the north, Courtney started her hike back to her house across town.
After 20 minutes of walking, Courtney finally got to Cilantro Park. She threaded through the many paths in the grassy and wooded plaza until she reached the heart of the park. In the center of a hexagon of concrete was a bronze statue sculpted by Courtney’s great aunt, Regina Lucas. Charles Lindbergh immortalized in the coppery metal in his aviator uniform, his hand reached for the sky like it was his home. No one really knew why Aunt Regina chose to carve the famous pilot since he had no connection with the city at all, but everyone noticed how elegantly molded he was. Courtney rarely noticed the statue anymore, usually just going passed it without giving him a glance. That night, though, the figure drew her attention, casting strange shadows in the peculiar lighting. Although, it would have been better if she had simply ignored it.
Hearing a scuffling noise, her head whipped around, and there stood an oily looking man, with a long, crooked nose and pale white skin contrasting his shoulder length hair. A pair of bright green eyes ogled her. Her eyes widened in terror and gaped at the man, which is exactly why she failed to notice the other approaching from behind. Cupping a hand over her mouth, the man grabbed her from behind while she thrashed. The man in front of her sauntered up to the shaking girl.
A sound like a million screeching hinges penetrated the twilight. The marble pedestal on which the bronze statue usually resided lied abandoned. With astonished eyes, Courtney stared at the 8 foot tall sculpture closing in on her and the foul stenching man confining her movement. Like she was a burning coal, the fellow had nearly thrown her to the concrete and attempted to dash out of the park.
Speeding up his pace, the coppery figure seized the man and hurled him into the dark sky like a pizza chef tossing dough. He catched the human projectile who was too terrified to even scream in horror, and flung him onto the grassy dirt, uninjured. The famous aviator’s likeness then turned his attention to the man with the green eyes. Deliberately, he lifted the stranger by his coattails and lobbed him in the direction of his scurrying business partner.
The statue of Charles Lindbergh walked over to Courtney and gently lifted her to her feet. Gaping at the bronze, she stared in awe at the memorial of the famous pilot before her knees gave way beneath her like a insufficient dam attempting to hold back a mighty river. In the beat of a heart, he steadied her back onto her legs. When she had managed to stand on her own without his assistance, he gave her a friendly smile. Bringing two fingers to his forehead in a silly salute, he returned to his stone platform. As he reached for the sky with his hand once again, the statue winked at Courtney, so instantaneous she would have never noticed if she had not been so focused on him. He stilled, as unmoving as stone. The altogether shaken girl wiped her face with her palms, still too petrified to move. Streams of tears had left river beds of caked mascara and foundation in their wake. Taking stuttering steps toward her purse, she lifted the satchel onto her shoulder. She bolted down the path leading to the street.
She only stopped running once she reached her house. Beige paneling and forest green shutters covered the face of her one story home, along with a small, snowy white wrap-around porch. Leaping over the three steps leading to the porch, she threw open the front door.
The next morning, after a visit to the police station, Courtney was in her room again. After doing nothing but lolling on her white and violet bedspread and playing connect the dots with the bumps in the ceiling, she started playing music on her iPod. Suddenly, she stood up and nearly tripped on her tennis shoes. Courtney walked to the side desk sitting in the corner, covered by stickers, bobbleheads, and her silver laptop, and seated herself in the office swivel chair. Getting onto Google, she smiled slightly as she typed “Charles Lindbergh” into the search engine.
One Broken Headlight
Years and years have passed.
Were you shattered
by a careless mistake,
or for a soldier’s sake?
Did you take a deadly round
so that the soldiers didn’t have to?
Your insides are now rusting,
grimy glass, disgusting.
All around you, the paint,
once so handsome,
is all chipping away.
Don’t you wish it’d stay?
On a truck that has witnessed war
is where you’ll remain,
and there you’ll be
staring right back at me.
Amongst the Leaves
Among dead leaves, lies a small velvet box, navy blue, like the sky to the east when the sun has just set. The parcel lies haphazardly on the blanket made for it, sitting by the mighty oak, discarded like a meaningless confession of love. Hinges of bright silver are dulled in the nonexistent radiance of the new moon. The fading color has paled and bled due to the passage of time. The lack of attention given to such an important little box wears it down. Within, creamy leather covers the insides of the case.
Even after all these years, it still shines pearly and silver, just like the day that young man purchased it. The silvery band forms a perfect circle, no blemishes whatsoever, chosen to fit the girl’s finger. A crystal clear diamond is clasped to the cool, metal hoop like a mother grasps her newborn child. Somberly, the engagement ring rests in the small velvet box, abandoned long ago as a casket to the love it was meant to forge for eternity.