Molting

     One day his skin started itching. He was walking towards home on the four lane, kicking up gravel and wishing the sun would stop shining. It was hot. Too hot. Sweat rolled down his back like the endless cars that kept flying by on down the road. He hated it all. The beaming sun. The traffic. The glare and the sound. But, most of all, he hated the way his t-shirt clung to him, how the logo of some long forgotten band stuck to his chest like a brand. It was unbearable.
     Suddenly, he couldn't take it any longer. His thoughts were racing. He was dizzy from the heat and the day. His skin was on fire and itching all over as if some mad parasite were eating at his very bones. He ripped off his shirt and threw it over his shoulder, lined with bloody marks that his fingernails had traced. The old t-shirt felt like a sack of bricks as it hung there, wringing wet and dripping, leaving a trail of hot sweat and blood behind him in the dirt. He threw it to the ground, unable to bare its burden, a cloud of dust blooming behind him.
    He dug his fingers into his arms, his neck as the feeling crawled inside of his skin. The heels of his feet were on fire, alive with this sensation. He wished it would die. He shook off his dirt caked boots one by one, yanking hard until he ripped the laces right from the leather that had seen so much earth and ware. He tossed them aside recklessly, hurling the boots towards the oncoming traffic. Horns blared in the air but he didn't even notice. All he could hear, see or feel was the itch that borrowed deeper into his body with every passing second.
     The fabric of his jeans constricted every nerve. He ripped off every shred of clothes that remained and threw them out into the wind. He was stark and pale, covered with freckles, and he was naked like the day he was born. The taboo didn't phase him as he walked along the highway receiving stares filled with astonishment, disgust and laughter from passerby. He was a spectacle, a traveling sideshow without a circus, no ring master, only subject to the excruciating tingling that tortured his skin and nothing else.
     The air was hot and thick around him, swarming like bees, stinging every inch of his body. His fingernails continued to scrape wildly away. The flesh on his arms began to feel dry, papery even. He felt air begin to get closer to his muscle, his bones. The skin on his body was shedding, peeling away. It was relief, sweet and longed for. The crazed feeling began to ease as his skin gave way to reveal the crimson world beneath the surface. He was walking muscle and sinew, tendon and vein. 
     With his arms outstretched, reaching to the sky, to the sun that he had hated with a blinding fury only moments ago, he watched with ecstasy as his muscles twisted away like ribbons in the wind until he was bone and organ, a walking cadaver. But he was alive with a fire he hadn't felt since the day he lost his job. Since the day he couldn't feed his family or afford his home. Since he ended up on the street alone. No future. Trapped in an invisible box called poverty.
     Eventually, all that was left of him was his bones. People gawked at the skeleton beyond their window, feared this creature, this life without substance, walking on the side of the four lane. He was the bane of society. And yet they pitied him too. But this was his greatest moment of joy. He had let the world, his body, and his life go and was crumbling, turning to dust in the wind. No more thinking. All would end.

To Be Golden

     It sounded like a spoon on a washboard, rolling back and forth over and over, again and again. It would not cease. It had no end. The sound was all there was in the dark of the bedroom, save for the flashes of lightning that ripped across the ceiling and rattled the house so bad the walls shook as if they were coming down. Nothing could save me in that little house, so I hid under my old, ratty quilt with that funny hole in it that no one really knew how it got there. I thought it could protect me, shelter me and defend me from the storm. I was wrong.  
     The thunder rang on and on, crashing down around the house as I buried myself deeper beneath the thin cover that was my barrier to the world. A loud crack ripped through the air and my ears began to ring so loud I thought they would bleed. The screeching of a tree breaking, crashing down, swarmed around me. And then the storm stopped. Slowly, sunlight crept into the room, flooding into every corner, every crevice. I relinquished my grasp on the quilt with apprehension. The storm was over, and yet I was still afraid. I was afraid to see beyond the covers, to let go of my piece of darkness and give my eyes unto the world.
     I ripped away the quilt. Brightness enveloped me and I was blinded. I saw constellations, their beauty rippling before my vision, shielding me from my surroundings. The stars danced before my eyes, gently fading like the warm breeze that surrounded me, floating away. I was in a field, all hazy with pollen, a yellowy cloud. My nightgown blew gently round my legs where I had thrown the quilt away. I shivered but the air was warm, warm like a summer night, all muggy and sweet. My head throbbed as if it had been struck.
     Slowly, I got down from my bed and stood in the field. The grass was sopping wet and I felt my feet mush in the mud beneath me, the earth sneaking between my bare toes. A black stream was running through the field some feet away, soaking up all the light. I made my way towards the oddity and found, not water, but asphalt. It was no stream, but a road. It was a curious thing, all alone in the field winding its path to who knows where. I stood there awhile, taking in the distinct scent of cool summer rain on hot pavement. Then I decided to walk on.
     I stepped onto the asphalt and a rush of warmth ran through the soles of my feet, up my legs. The asphalt was new. That I could see. No rays of sun dared to reflect off its surface. The surface was shiny as if it was a sheet of black glass, waiting, begging even, to be cracked. I was afraid to take a step, afraid to break it. Holding my breath, I began to walk.
     I walked beneath a cotton candy sky, all blue and pink and white with clouds out of some dream, too perfect in their form. It was wondrously clear and bright. The air was humid and sticky, but there was something so pleasant about the warmth that I didn't care. I just kept walking down the glass road, floating really.
     And I walked and walked, yet everything looked the same. The field stretched out on either side of me, never changing while the road went on and on. The pain in my head remained but was slowly subsiding. My bare feet were beginning to ache. Something inside of me pushed me on and I would not stop. I had a strange feeling as I walked farther that I was supposed to reach the end of the path. Whether this was driven by my own curiosity or something much greater I was not certain. But I had to reach the end.
     It felt like hours, days even, until I saw the end. There were vibrant trees, bright green covered with blossoming white flowers , that stretched across the field as far as the eye could. It was like the entrance to some enchanted forest, a gateway to another world, another life. I ignored the hammering of my feet and ran to the forest as if I was racing some invisible opponent, competing for entrance into this land beyond the trees.
     The forest opened up for me, embraced me and welcomed me. Inside the trees, there were faces, ghostly, golden faces staring at me. Their eyes were bright and shining, filled with something I had yet to understand, to realize and to feel. They nodded as I gingerly touched my temple, the source of the throbbing in my head, my fingers gingerly grazing my head. I felt something warm and wet and recoiled. My fingertips were bright, scarlet red. I studied the color with unbelieving awe and touched my face again. It was a battered mess of flesh and blood. I could not see but I could feel the damage. My right eye was sunken, swollen. My skull was broken, cracked and destroyed.
     But the pain was gone. Only a whisper remained. I sat down on the cool, damp ground as the faces gathered around me. I felt their presence, their peace. Their golden eyes were all there was and I forgot myself. They touched their skulls and so did I. The cracks began to fill. My swollen, sunken eye slowly became the delicate creature it once was again. I stood again and my legs began to fade away beneath me, drifting away like smoke, and then my arms, my waist, and my neck went too. I felt the thrill of the transformation in soul. All that was left was my face, unbroken, perfect.
     I was golden.

The Day A Person Lived

     It's a funny thing as you get older. You think you know who you are and then you wake up one day and you can't recognize yourself. Every time you pass by a mirror, you steal a quick glance just to make sure the person inside of your head wears the same face as the person who gazed back yesterday. And, of course, the same brown eyes, the same mouth, the same little freckle on your left cheek are all the same. The way you stand with your feet turned out and your hand on your hip, the laziness of your posture, the way your head tilts slightly to the side, is indeed the person who stood across from you a year ago, or even five. But the eyes are unsure, the mouth isn't curved up in a knowing smile, there is an awkwardness in the way you hold yourself, as if you are not the owner of the body in which you stand, a mere echo of the person who once was.
    You go on, lying to yourself every day that you haven't changed, that you are no different than the vibrant being who once walked the earth but is now almost extinct. You were full of life, the excitement of simply existing used to flood your veins with happiness, coursing through your body like electricity, lighting the way. You once thought you knew your path, where you were supposed to go, what you were supposed to do, your purpose. But one day, you woke up and realized you weren't that sure anymore, that there is more grey in the world than black and white, and that you aren't really certain on whose side you stand, what you believe, or who you belong with. The idea of this is simply torturous. It is frightening, wholly unnerving, and beyond your capacity to cope with. The thoughts are eating you alive so you decide to put them away, bury them in the deepest recesses of your mind and shut them off completely before they destroy you. And you go on with your life, but you aren't really living, merely existing, floating through time as a sad memory of the person who once was, who once was allowed to be free.
     But that person is still alive, screaming inside to be let out again, to be allowed to breath, to live again. They are trapped inside of you, fighting a war to survive. And that person hangs on, even if only by a mere thread, for they cannot die, they are who you truly are even if you seem to not remember what it ever felt like to not be hollow, to not be this shell of a person you have become. That person, your true self, will always exist, for it is the only part of you released from the limitations of human form. It is your essence, your spirit, your soul.
     And someday, something small perhaps, will awaken it. It could be something as insignificant as a glimpse of the sun on the first true day of spring, or maybe a conversation with a friend, possibly completely unrelated, that jolts the memory of who you once were. And for the first time, you are forced to face the fear which you suppressed. To accept that you really have become someone unrecognizable, a shadow. It is painful, excruciating even, to realize what you have tried so hard to ignore. But this excruciating pain, you find, is actually bearable, a relief, even, from the numbness and unfeeling which you have experienced for so long. In a matter of seconds you heal.
      All of a sudden, the happiness you feel is inexplicable and you realize that the way you have been viewing life, the world, and yourself is totally wrong and that finally you understand. It is blissful and peaceful. It beings in your chests, welling up and spreading through your legs, through your arms, down to your finger and toes.You feel whole for the first time since your true self was chained up and locked away. You are once again living. You are happy. And once again you know exactly who you truly are. You are you.

The Orange Hands Man

     He was standing on the bustling street corner before a cross walk whose black screen was aglow with the angry,  red silhouette of a hand outstretched, holding back would be crossers. He was old and small and bearded, happily so, with a touch of jovial mischief about his face. His eyes were like deep wells filled to the brim with cement, unseeing but full of life and wonder. He was content, his demeanor almost tranquil, yet within there was a fire still burning, a gale blustering about creating a mad haze of  boy-like excitement for the prospects the world had to offer, but he just couldn't reach them.
     The golden light of restaurant fronts cast his shadow on the ground. He studied it and felt taller, greater, larger than the world itself. He studied people in the windows, on the streets, the sidewalks, the cars slowing to a stop at the intersection where he stood. They were each special. He knew this. He saw their hearts in their eyes, read their lives upon their faces and understood them. He could feel them, these lives, within his fingers, palms, within his hands. And his hands were orange, bright orange like the neon sign above the dirty tattoo parlor three blocks down, flickering on and off in the night indecisively. And every time he would catch a glimpse of his hands it would remind him, remind him of the wonder of the world and the people in it.
     His hands were his memory. They were the source of all his feelings, his anger, his happiness, his sadness, his love. For everything he did, his hands were colored. They had been orange for years, glowing strongly, brilliantly, in the night of the streets, through the maroon gloom, the black alleys, the dark edges of the city, constant companions.
     Each passerby was different as he stared them in the eye, each with their own problems, issues, fears, hopes, and dreams. They were all recipients of his maddeningly yellow smile, the creases nestled about his eyes, the lines on his knowing face. And he would lift his orange hands to his chest and wave them, his palms facing the onlookers, spreading the color, the life, the joy, the message from his heart and his mind. The orange hands man loves everybody and he wants everybody to know.

An Argument for the Adult Consumption of "Children's" Stories

     I was sitting in a dorm room at one in the morning holding a collector's edition Hermione's wand and wearing Harry Potter glasses. It was dark and loud with talking, talking about classes, about movies, about life, about books, when friends began to criticize a series I hold dear, Harry Potter. They took every element of the book and stripped it down so far that the magic became hard to grasp, difficult to remember, from the way in which they were describing the story. Every mistake, every loop hole that J.K. Rowling left unfixed and opened, they ripped apart and used as evidence as to why the series is not worth the merit and fandom it has received. I was truly shook up. I began to analyze the series in my mind, to evaluate the feelings which had so strongly stemmed from the story of a young boy wizard, orphaned and alone, developing friendships and coming to terms with his life, his trials and destiny, and how he conquered the evil in this world. I soon realized that the loopholes do not matter, they will never matter. The story was something more to me; it was a childhood, a life, an adventure.
     It was seventh grade. I was a slightly chubby thirteen year old, round belly, skinny legs. My group of friends was not "popular", we were not the middle school athletes, the super nerds, or the kids that people feared. We were simply the in-betweens. We belonged nowhere, and because of that, we belonged with each other. We were diverse and different, each of us unique in our own quirky way. But one crucial thing united us, we loved to read. And I read. I read everything I could get my hands on from as early as I can remember, and seventh grade, a particularly nasty year for me, being the subject of mild bullying that I completely survived, was the fateful year I discovered the books that would change my world, Harry Potter. I was in the library, happily searching the old dusty shelves of too few books for my next journey, my next escape, when I ended up in the aisle with the Harry Potter series. I knew of it. Oh, I knew about it. I had watched the first movie the year it came out when I was only in kindergarten. Yet, I had refused to read it up until this moment, believing, as in hipster-like fashion, that it was "too popular" to be worth it.
     I gave in.
     In a few months I had savored them all, careful not to read them too fast lest they end too quickly. I was, quite honestly, and not the least bit melodramatically, depressed when I had reached their end. I no longer knew what to do with myself. I was completely immersed in this world of imagination, of endless magic, of friendship and danger. It took me away, it carried me off to a place where it didn't matter whether or not I was pretty, whether or not I was "cool", and it taught me that being different, being a part of the group that has no group, is completely fine, and sometimes, it can be a good thing.
     After middle school, I slowly transformed. I was no longer the shy, quiet girl huddled behind a book like I had been. I was a different person, happy, outgoing, and confident. I became a runner, made new friends, even changed schools. I had molted, but deep down, the core of who I was never changed. I remained an avid reader and never forgot the story about the boy wizard, his two best friends, and the parallel childhoods we had together. Now, in college, I think about the books almost every day, for they are not simply a part of my life, they are a part of me.
     So that night, sitting in my dorm room, listening to friends bash the books that I had esteemed and lived, that were an integral piece of what made my childhood so memorable, I realized something. It occurred to me that I was incredibly lucky. I was allowed to be apart of this world, this beautiful journey through the imagination, without question, but only wonder. I had a childhood full of play, pretend, and magic. The story means something to me not because it is the greatest piece of literature that ever graced the earth, but simply because it was my story. Harry Potter represents what my childhood felt like, stood for, and meant to me.
     There is a simple wonder to the unquestioning minds of children which I find too many of us forget as we grow older. Too often are beautiful stories cast aside as for only "children", when really the imagination and sheer illogic of the tales is what makes them great. The simplicity and imperfection is incorrectly taken to mean they are not for adults, when really I think adults are the ones who need the stories most. We are not meant to live these dull and humdrum lives that society throws at us. We are meant to be free. And no other genre exhibits such breathtaking liberation as that of children, for children, when allowed to live the childhoods they deserve, are truly free.