MirandaDay

An oceanic silence Crushes the sounds Of nightfall. Heavy eyelids Threaten to close Against the last sliver of radiance In the twilit air. Quicksilver memories flash Through the dark gray Like lightning And I wait, Wait for the ether To descend and surround me.

Photons scrape the atmosphere And I sit, Crosslegged in the grass While the heather dances delicately Like the twinkling flames Flickering faintly inside me. Tears smolder on my face, Tiny flecks of ash And desolation. I know what I’m waiting for, But I know that delusion Is the pastime of fools. Am I the fool? For letting my heart soar To the ceiling of the glistening heavens Above me? Rocketing into space, The purest form of freedom Until meteorites collided and Tore my spirit to shreds Under the atmosphere, full of photons Scraping against the fresh wounds in my soul.

Saturday, 11:00 am The sunlight was dull and cold that morning, but it was enough to drag me from the recesses of sleep that I clung to. My eyelids were heavy and my head was pounding, my body drowning in the deepest hangover I'd ever experienced. I felt disgusting. I didn't even remember coming home last night, much less getting into bed. The house was quiet, somber. Mom was probably out buying the week's groceries. My sisters were downstairs watching cartoons: I could barely hear the faint rumble of animated voices from below. I rolled over groggily, wincing at my sore muscles and wondering what the hell had happened the night before. I'

            The radio was the last thing Gwen packed.            It was an afterthought, an act of impulse. She’d been in the pantry, raiding every scrap of non-perishable food she could get her hands on. She shoved granola bars and bags of pretzels into the folds of the clothing that was already taking up the majority of the space in her beat-up purple backpack. She’d had the backpack since she started Kindergarten. Joel had never cared enough to buy her a new one.            When her bag was bursting at the seams, Gwen jerked the zipper closed, using her knee and the side of the washing machine as a makeshift clamp to hold t

The little red pickup shudders to a stop in the sandy parking lot between faded white lines. Nate jimmies the key from the unyielding ignition and stuffs it in the pocket of his faded jeans. I open the passenger door and am caught off guard by a gust of sea breeze. The salty smell stings my eyes and nose, but I inhale deeply. I’ve been cheated by the city and its toxic atmosphere of exhaust, cigarettes, and subtle monotony. Nate comes around the front of the truck, almost tripping over his still-lanky legs. Even at twenty-one, he is as awkward as he was at twelve. He smiles. “Ready?” he asks, his gray eyes punctuating his