A Sad Girl's Memorial

The bell is ringing, calling upon all bright students, with slick hair and sandwiches made of love in their backpack. But the boy is not a golden one, so he could care less about what a bell is telling him to do. He is too busy looking for sticks, in the school’s backyard. His hair is oily and his face muddy. Apparently, this bothers his mom, for whatever reason: “You will end up looking like a rat if you keep on only showering in rain. You are not exactly a sight for sour eyes to begin with, so you better get your act together.” She just does not understand that looking pretty is not his purpose, which is odd because it was his father who decided so. One would think that parents would talk through their reasons for having a kid, instead of just ordering one like fast food at the drive-thru after a rough day at work. But then again, even if they did have the talk, it would have been a one-way conversation. His mom is a talker rather than a listener, after all. “Good thing the boy can f...

The boy is sitting in a room, looking out the window. His room, his mother keeps calling it, but he does not recognize the beige walls or the people on the posters. The boy waits for something to happen, but the street has been emptied. The summer air has not reached the neighborhood yet, so most families have packed their bags to meet it halfway. Not his, though. All they have ever known, is how to outrun the heat. One hour ago, there was a brother and sister playing outside, staying right where he could see them. The playgrounds sandbox. That’s the first place they wanted to go as soon as their cranky, old dad parked his car, full of trash from some 10-days-long beach trip. A sandbox. After 10 days at the beach. Don't they ever get enough? Aren't their shoes filled with bristly grains by now? The boy can still see traces of them in the sand. One time, he asked if they wanted to play knights with him, you know, for a change, but the oldest one told him they weren't allowed...

The kids are singing, frosting smeared all over their face, chocked on soda. How pathetic, the boy thinks, don't they know how barbaric they look? Jacob, precious golden boy, is sitting on his throne, with a smug smile, enjoying the sound of tone-deaf babies. All hail the king or whatever. He knows he will get anything he asks for. He knows it, and the boy hates that he does. His servants are lining up. Their hands are covered in mud from the last game, dirtying the offerings they are bearing. Good, the boy thinks, make sure to touch his face.  The first to stand before Jacob is a girl, whom the boy has never taken proper notice of before. He thinks she might be in the same class as him, but she has a forgettable presence. Her hair looks dull, and her skin paler than death. Besides, she never talks. What does she expect? That her silence will make a mark on humanity? How stupid. But the boy does have to admit, for once she has attempted making… an impression. She has a pink bow i...

The boy is sitting on the floor, in a dark room, and with nowhere to hide. As a replacement for a bed, there is a cardboard box in the corner. Many summers ago, it would have been the perfect tool for play and escapism. He and his… He used to collect boxes. The ones that adults saw no need in any longer. A box was a mere mean of containment, for the grown, colorless mind. But not for the boy. The boy was still full of potential, capable of seeing what lays beyond. They all are at that age.  So, what he would do, was take a piece of old cardboard and turn it into something new; a house, a kiosk, and of course, the ship. The ship, specifically a warship, was undoubtedly his best invention yet. He spent days carving, painting, and decorating, and oh, what a wonderful world he entered once he was done. With it, he travelled to distant planets, and learned the ways of all kinds of aliens. Some would greet him with song, while others would suck his hair with the tip of a tentacle. Every ...

The little boy stomps around in white landscape, barefoot, leaving behind the hole made of his old pair of boots. He is on his way home, but he doesn't quite know where that is yet. He has heard tales of people lighting up windows to welcome others, but around him, all curtains have been drawn. There was once a meadow. I used to run all the way towards the end, until I rolled downwards. But because of you, all grass has withered, he thinks, and starts kicking the snow. I am sure my fingers have turned blue if they haven´t fallen off like icicles already. I wouldn´t know. I can no longer feel anything. It is all because of you.   He approaches a human silhouette, but is disappointed to find that, once again, it is just a snowball with a carrot for nose. The boy takes its scarf and makes it his own. I know it is wrong to take what is not mine. I don't want to hurt you, but you must understand that I am so cold, and I long for warmth. The garment has turned bitter from being le...

This is Girl speaking, again. About a year ago I wrote a story in honor of my friend, a boy who was looking for a place to call home. And then, a little later on, I did the same, for another friend, a boy who only wanted to be seen. Over time, the stories I wrote to remember all who have mattered, became a character. The Boy. He exists as one, but at his core, he is everyone who has ever been. And on his journey, he will keep on encountering The Girl, the same at her core but existing in different bodies, different life forms, different objects, in all which changes one. No matter in what form, The Girl will be present in each and every story, just like The Boy is.  Feel free to stay and look for a bit.