Vignettes

Vignette:

1.	a decorative design or small illustration used on the title page of a book or at the beginning or end of a chapter.

2.	an engraving, drawing, photograph, or the like that is shaded off gradually at the edges so as to leave no definite line at the border.

3.	a decorative design representing branches, leaves, grapes, or the like, as in a manuscript.

4.	any small, pleasing picture or view.

5.	a small, graceful literary sketch.

(Dictionary.com)

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Welcome to:

An experiment with new styles.

A glimpse of my growing collection of very different vignettes.

Writing based on simple words, phrases, and thoughts.

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Over the summer, he had tried working at a fast food restaurant for extra cash. He hadn’t expected to see her again, burn the hamburgers patties twice, and be fired within an hour.

He had always been more than a little clumsy and she more than a little odd. She had approached him first two years ago, to tell him that he should eat french fries with ice cream instead of ketchup. ‘That’s far less calories.’ Then he had accidently squirted ketchup all over her bright orange blouse.

He certainly hadn’t expected his first kiss to taste of french fries dipped in ice cream. It was odd and a bit clumsy. But very, very healthy.

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Her room was downright messy. Blank crumpled pages littered the floor and the bed was hidden under an assortment of old textbooks, torn jean shorts, and unwrapped chocolate boxes. Her cell phone and laptop were both somewhere, meaning lost somewhere. The garbage bag had been overflowing for quite a while now. But for some reason, the perfectly clean, white tabletop in the kitchen bothered her the most.

It made her feel emptier. It reminded her of him. So she dumped the contents of the garbage bag onto the table.

A little better.

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It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. The child told herself that the sun shouldn’t be allowed to hide behind the ocean. How were you supposed to seek something like that? Life was so unfair.

She didn’t want to play with the sun anymore. She’d race the wind instead.

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The little boy’s clearly been frustrated for some time. You’ve seen him crying before but never bothered to approach him. No one does. Young boys like you are supposed to be happy and carefree.

Then one day, he’s smiling. At first you think it’s a trick of light but that’s not the case. He sitting there in the dirt, in those unkempt clothes your mother would cringe at. But he’s smiling. So you ask him why. And he whispers his big secret to you.

‘I’m invisible.’

It makes you want to cry.

For once, the tables are turned.

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She would prefer a quick death so that the pain wouldn’t have a chance to register. She doesn’t think that she could handle a torturous, drawn-out end.

She prefers fast dances for a similar reason. Any slower and there might be a chance for connection, for actual attraction. And she doesn’t think that she could handle that either.

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He’s a little different, a little quieter than most. A little more mysterious, a little bit easy to miss. He prefers to ponder over his thoughts a little longer. Perhaps his words are fewer. But he doesn’t understand why being a little different is so wrong.

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She sits at the dining table, dressed in a light gray T-shirt and fuzzy pyjama pants. She reaches for the copy of the local newspaper and mixes cream into her coffee. She could never drink it black: it was much too bitter.

The headlines, as usual, are bleak. ‘Apartment Fire Kills Four’ Only four? She wishes that she could be mournful, maybe even shed a few tears. But scarily enough, it’s becoming almost a habit, reading about all of these deaths. She can only scold herself for being so cold and skim the rest of the article.

The mother and father had been in the living room, the baby in his crib, the teenage boy in the shower.

The shower? It must be horrible to die so exposed. For anyone to see. Who found his body? Was there even a body left to be found?

She can almost feel the cold tiles against her own bare skin, cold even in the steaming hot shower.

So vulnerable. So powerless. So insignificant.

So human.

She’s suddenly scared of dying naked.

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You’ve known him since you were very little. Your parents had basically forced you to play with him.

Sometimes he had been so annoying. So much like a boy. Like that time when he claimed the single swing on the playground simply because he got there first (by cheating with a head start, of course.)

You were ready to throw a tantrum but suddenly he jumped off the swing, did a silly little bow, and asked if you would like to go first. You had crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously.

This had to be a trick. There must have been some catch. After all, he was a boy.

He bent down (even though you weren’t that much shorter!), smiled, and ruffled your hair.

‘You’re cute with your eyes crossed like that.’

Back then, you’d called him an idiot.

Now you pinpoint this moment to be when boys became a little less icky.

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He would breathe if the air didn’t smell of a burning cigarette.

He would go back if the path hadn’t been smothered by gnarled thorns.

He would stop if cool metallic grazing flesh didn’t give him such a rush.

He would reconsider if he felt like he had anything to lose.

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Nothing could ever be as accepting, as calming, as natural, as unpredictable, as liberating, as ethereal, as simple, as exquisite, as captivating, as sweet, as realistic, or as blind as the rain.

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He’s waiting for you to acknowledge him, if only for a moment.

He’s the old beggar on the street, the one in faded rags with holes and fabric much too thin.

The one who lost everything in his life (a story you’ll never hear) many years ago.

The one who shivers on a wooden park bench at night if he’s lucky.

The one you will pity but never touch.

The one who has forgotten warmth and comfort.

The one with the wrinkled complexion of caked dirt and dried tears.

The one who secretly disgusts you.

The one that swallows his pride as he searches for leftovers in the Dumpster.

The one you pretend not to see.

The one who’s waiting for you to care, and for more than just a moment.

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The child looks out at the ocean, warm sand caressing his tiny toes. It’s picture perfect, all pure white foam with deep sparkling blues and satiny light greens. A soothing breeze blows a soft kiss to the rhythmic currents. Seashells playfully reflect the gentle rays of the sun. A salty flavor stagnant in the air is the only hint of the approaching storm.

It’s picture perfect.

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Blind madness is nothing compared to a rational mind laced with anger.

He realizes this in calligraphy class.

One is an ink splotch, an ugly splatter on porcelain white.

It is pitied and scorned.

But the other is a composed brush applied with just enough pressure to round out the last stroke.

It is beautifully maneuvered and dangerously subtle.

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The legs and claws of the crab continue to twitch helplessly after being severed off the body and the silent screaming is cruel enough to make your heart crawl.

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When I was younger, I wanted to be a construction worker so that I could piece together the world my way.

I wanted to build a gazillion towers and with a touch of my finger, light up every street.

I wanted to construct magical roads that would float on air and a bridge that would connect Mommy’s house to Daddy’s.

I wanted to create parks full of pretty flowers and a little ice cream shop filled with laughter around the corner.

But most of all, I wanted to pick up broken hearts and make them whole again.

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He said she was a rarity, like dewdrops in autumn.

She said he was unusual, like frost in summer.

He said that the two were complementary.

She said that it was all very logical.

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They say we’re as different as day and night.

But have you ever wondered why day breaks when it is night that falls?

The answer’s quite simple: one couldn’t exist without the other.

I say we go hand in hand, like day and night.

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It’s ironic without reason

that the little girl who could never decide between vanilla or chocolate ice cream now has to make a life-determining decision this big.

It’s ironic that after your own mother went through more than her fair share of Hell (the doctor was suggesting abortion to save her own life) just to give birth to you, you’re even contemplating becoming ‘Pro-choice.’

It’s ironic that millions of women in this world would love to be in your place: they’ve tried so hard but always fail to conceive.

Yet it’s ironic that millions of children are stuck in orphanages each year: you’d think that they would have been given a better ‘life.’

It’s ironic that one day you’ll either be saying ‘You wouldn’t be the oldest child if…’ or ‘You wouldn’t be alive if…’ and neither choice seems very appealing.

It’s mostly ironic that other women, men, politicians, and even little teenagers, many of the people who will never be in your situation, already have such strong opinions and are more than willing to force them upon you.

It’s pure, unborn irony.

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They’re not the type of couple that’s capable of PDA.

In fact, they still blush when they meet each other’s eyes.

So you see, hugs and kisses are completely out of question.

“There’s a leaf in your hair.”

“Really?”

His hand combs through her curls and brushes her shoulder.

“Not anymore.”

They don’t even hold hands while crossing the street.

“You’ve got something over there.”

“Hmm?”

Her fingers brush over his lips and linger only a second on his cheek.

“All gone.”

Their eyes meet in an innocent smile.

It’s really quite sweet.

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You asked me that fateful morning, “What do you want in this world?”

So I thought about it.

What do I want?

I want money, I want riches.

Gold and jewels as far as the eye can see.

I want power, I want to inflict pain.

My enemies tortured until they cower, begging for forgiveness.

I want domination, I want control.

Slaves fulfilling my every whim, feeding my crazed desires.

So my answer?

“I want you.”

And when I look into eyes that shine with blind adoration, I can see that you have fallen like the ones before you.

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