A Cloudless Skye

A Cloudless Skye - Sophia Mu (Newark Academy, Tenth Grade)

Drip. Drip.

Marbled blue concentrate bled into swirled whipped albumen. Ayla watches as streaks of

deep blue melded together with soft white meringue, coating her spatula in light sky blue.

Baking chiffon is a therapeutic activity. Ayla isn’t fond of sweets, but Skye particularly

enjoys this confectionery. She always licks the spoon in spite of Ayla’s concerns over salmonella.

Ayla’s little sister walks into the room, usually trying to sneak a slice from between them.

Out the window, the horizon is dotted with cirrus clouds, a backdrop of omnipresent

azure. Ayla wonders when the sun will set, and bright blue will be replaced by deep crimson.

Drip. Drip.

More blue into whipped up heavy cream. Ayla likes a light pink, but they ran out of red.

Ayla supposes their sink hasn’t been fixed. A patch of tape barely prevents the leaking

faucet from spewing.

One time, Ayla tripped over the threshold between the living room and kitchen holding

food dye. The explosion of deep red over her cream-colored sweater brought her lips to a frown.

And on the pavement, under rubber, Skye and Christie were sitting in that puddle, lying.

Oh well, the drain works just fine. Ayla watches the swirling liquid funnel down into a

tiny whirlpool.

“-Ayla. Ayla!” A frustrated voice derails Ayla’s train of thought.

“Why are you baking again?” Her mother sighs, solemnly.

“It feels normal.” She cuts a slice, waiting for Skye and Christie to come clamoring down

the stairs and rescue her from having to swallow a slab of superfluous saccharine.

Instead, her mother takes Skye’s plate and hums pleasantly.

“Lemon?” Ayla nods. It’s Skye’s favorite.

Ah. It’s her birthday. It’s time to make a wish.

Ayla blows out the candle, and the smoke stings her eyes.

Drip. Drip.

“C’mon, let’s visit Christie.” Her mother gently takes her hand. Ayla cuts a slice for her.

Her little sister has always been pale, but she is especially small and pallid on the blank

cot. The eerie white from all directions stung Ayla’s eyes as she hunched over the sterile table.

“Wasn’t it your birthday like five days ago?” Her little sister recounts.

Her mother chimes in. “She’s been baking nonstop. We’re almost out of fridge space!”

“Oh. Well, help out!” Christie’s pasty arm trembles as she offers up her utensil.

“Too sweet. No thanks.” Ayla always says.

“C’mon! Just one bite!” She whines, the plastic almost falling to the floor.

So she presses a fork into the sponge, lifts the morsel to her mouth, and feels the lemony

sweetness coating her tongue. Even the artificial taste of blue preys on her taste buds.

And memories of the brightest blue flood her mind in crashing waves, until they start

running down her cheeks in rivulets that match her sisters’ own, splattering onto the marbled

floors which collect the unending deluge.