Teens > Summer 2008 Teen Writing Contest
Summer 2008 Teen Writing Contest
Grades 6-8 Prose Runner-Up: "Death of an Acquaintance" by Mirah Scholz
I pause at the curb, watching as a semi thunders past, kicking up dirt into the dim evening sky. The wind whips at my hair, tangling into my eyes and mouth, twisting my skirt around my legs, making me stumble. Dead leaves rustle across the brown grass and into the November air, floating down in unexpected places. A lady's hat blows away and tangles under the wheels of a pick-up, slipping away in its wake. I laugh.
I make eye contact with a blond woman in a shiny green sedan and cross the street. I don't turn to watch the car rush forward with the rest of the traffic, hurrying home to their dinners and children. The sidewalk is laced with cracks, lines of moss creeping up between the cold cement and broken glass. I walk for two blocks, watching the sunset fade from orange to pink to green, and finally to a dim blue as the sun's last rays fall behind the hills.
Something flashes silver in the yellow glow of a street light at the corner of my vision. I turn to see an empty Coke can, crushed, shining. I kick it into the street and listen to it clink along the pavement until it bumps against the curb, stopping abruptly. I continue on towards the river, slipping through the shadows between street lamps buzzing with moths.
The river water is dark and dirty, flowing silently between its banks. I sit down on a rotting log, shifting my weight as wood crumbles away from beneath me. I squint across to the opposite shore, watching the lights of downtown twinkle and fade and flicker. Behind the sky scrapers the hills are dark, save for the pale glimmers of open windows. Catches of voice carry from the riverside houses near me, and I hear the screeching of skidding tires. It's late, but the city is still very much awake.
I get up and walk along the pebbles and sand towards the bridge. It's rusty, painted a pale milky green, solid, steel. I lean against the cold metal, letting my head rest on a scrap of half-obscured, decade old graffiti. A leaf rustles by, colorless in the dim. It scratches along the shore and then blows into the water on a sudden shift of the wind. The river laps rhythmically at the shore, reflecting the moonlight in silver streaks and smelling toxic and minty. I drift off watching headlights crawl along the bridge over my head, tires clacking on the metal grating.
It's nearly light out when I start back. The city is thoroughly asleep now, in the silent pre-dawn hours before the first pink of sunlight touches the horizon. I walk deep in thought about nothing in particular, the pavement passing quickly under my feet, a blur of gray. I pause halfway across a deserted street to pick up shards of broken china, a pale blue color, with scraps of writing in green script. I can make out parts of proverbs, but mostly the text is a jumble of letters and half-words. I slip them into my pocket.
The world's waking up again when I get home. Cars crowd the street, cold engines complaining loudly and horns beeping at intersections. The air is filled with the sleepy murmur of people not quite awake, but starting their day anyway. For the first time all night I shiver as I let myself in the back door.
I wake up late, to thunder. Outside my window the sky is dark. I pull on a jacket over last night's clothes, and go outside. Wind whips at the trees, tearing at my hair and shirt, pulling me this way and that. As I walk, I see no one. I am alone with the storm. Lightening strikes an exotic display in the clouds overhead, sending electricity coursing through the air. I can feel it for an instant in the sidewalk, the trees, in myself. Rain comes in bursts, riding on the wind. Trash flies through the air, plastic bags catching on telephone wires and fences, receipts and lottery tickets mixing in with fallen leaves and rising into the air. I notice I am not alone. A man walks in pace with me on the opposite side of the road. I can't see through the driving rain whether he's looking at me or not, but I feel him staring. What's he doing out in the middle of such a storm? Although, if I think of it that way, what am I doing out here? I walk for several minutes, watching the patterns of darkness and lesser darkness on the clouds, almost bluish in the strange light.
I sit down against an willow tree, watching its branches whip and fly in the gale, flinging cold spray at me. Like I wasn't wet already. The man crosses the street towards me, head down against the driving rain. I realize as he gets closer how old he is. He's bent over, and walks slowly, supported by a carved wooden cane. His face is wrinkled, and his hair white, only occasionally laced with a bit of darker gray. He shuffles over to me, my immediate urge is to help him, but somehow it doesn't seem like he is someone who likes to be helped.
Hello, he says.
We walk together through the wet and wind until the storm's worn out. I'm surprised anyone of his age could walk so far. We talk about everything: the leaves, the sky, Monday mornings, snow, technology, gods, Palestine… We tell each other nothing about ourselves or our lives but our first names. His is Tinre.
Then I ask him how old he is.
I'm old, he replies.
Yes, but how old? I insist.
I know it's not good to push. We've walked a long way and he hasn't complained. Even I'm starting to get tired. He looks at me with his cold gray eyes, not unfriendly, but definitely lacking the laughter that was behind them a moment before.
I'm going to die tomorrow, He says it with a flat voice, no expression. He's waiting to see how I'll reply. I feel like I'm being tested. I look at the sky for an answer. The clouds are higher and brighter, and the rain's lightened up. What am I supposed to say to a statement like that?
Oh, I say.
Yeah.
We walk in slowly is silence back to our part of town. Neither of us try to start a conversation again. What if he's right? How could he possibly know such a thing? As I turn to climb my stairs he calls out my name. He tells me to go to his house the next morning and tells me the address. I'm not afraid. The sun has come out through the overcast as I walk inside, bathing the streets in light. Somehow the sunlight makes it colder than the rain did.
In the morning I see the full destruction of yesterday's storm. Everything is still soggy and dripping, lawns reduced to mud, gutters so clogged with fallen leaves that water is backed up, almost overflowing the curb. Fences and branches block the sidewalk, and in some places there are trees blocking the road. One huge old chestnut lays across both the road and sidewalk, roots sticking out of the ground and covered with soil.. I take a different route.
People are starting to wake up and realize that their power's out and their flowerbeds ruined. I see one woman stare in horror at at tree fallen on her sports car, and then burst into tears. I smile at her, but she doesn't see me. Not that it matters.
Tinre's house is set back from the street and nearly hidden by scotch broom and blackberries. Everything is flowering, and the plants appear completely unfazed by the storm. I walk up the dirt path and knock on the door.
Come in, He calls from somewhere inside. I turn the knob, and step onto a green carpet. Inside, the house is amazing. Sketches, paintings, bones, and photographs cover every wall. Feathers and dried roses hang from the furniture and doorways. Tinre is perched on an embroidered blue silk chair. He doesn't look like a man who's planning to die within the day. He looks like a king.
Um, hi, I say, smiling at the room, the house, the strange circumstances in which I'm here. You asked me to come see you. He turns his head to the side and smiles with all but his eyes.
Yes, he says. I did.
For awhile our conversation is ordinary, wandering, pleasant: aliens, agriculture, war, clear cutting, geometry, flowers... We sit in the warm light forever, chatting and smiling, until he stops talking mid-sentence.
Listen to me, He says, looking me in the eye. I have a strange feeling of what's coming, and I don't want to hear it. I break eye contact and look at the ceiling. It's painted with an extraordinary mural, fields, flowers, kingdoms, a whole world above my head. Covering it all is writing, tight, slanted script mixed with bold purple text. When I squint I can make out words.
Listen, Tinre stares at me so hard I'm forced to bring my eyes back down to him. To earth. I want you to burn my house. Burn everything. He's smiling, but he looks weak.
Burn your house? I repeat. I think about what I know about this man, and realize it comes out to absolutely nothing. His name. His house. What he thinks about the conflict between Israel and Palestine. Whether he likes Monday mornings. Absolutely nothing. Why is he putting this responsibility on me? I'm just some random stranger. He's just some random stranger.
He smiles as if it's not strange at all, or as if I'm not a stranger.
He tells me about his childhood, his life. He's rambling, for the first time he seems almost senile. Almost old. Slowly his voice fades.
Tinre? I whisper. It seems like a time for whispers. He smiles at me. His eyes glow, his whole life just beneath the surface, ready to be released. I reach for his hand.
We sit in silence, as the light fades from his face. His eyes begin to close, but he forces them back open. Burn it. He says. I just nod.
Then he's gone. Outside the trees are still, not daring to sway and break our perfect silence. I sit there for a long time, holding his hand. I don't think he would want me to cry, so I don't. No, actually I cry anyway. He's just an acquaintance, anyway.
There are matches in the kitchen. Wooden ones, with an image of a dove on the box. I pick them up, experimentally strike one against the box, and watch it burst readily into flame. I let it burn down almost until it touches my fingertips, and then drop it hastily. It dies slowly on the black and white tiles.
The sun comes out.
I wander aimlessly back into the living room. Tinre looks so quiet laying there, relaxed. I know that if I touch him he'll be cold and dead, so I reach out and touch his arm. It feels cold and dead. There's a brown velvet ribbon around his wrist, attached loosely with a little gold safety pin. I take it off. The wind blows in the trees. Out the window they sway against the blue sky. I wrap the ribbon around my arm and pin it on.
In the kitchen I find a bin of newspaper. I spread it over the house with a sense of ceremony. In the bedroom I pull an old blanket off the bed and carry it to Tinre's chair. I cover him with orange and gray wool, a pillow behind his head, paper sprinkled over him like confetti. I don't celebrate.
His thin hair shines silver against the surface of the pillow where the light falls. I watch the light patterns dance with the leaves outside until clouds cover the sun. His hair fades to dull and gray. Tinre's dead.
The matches are still in the kitchen. I light one and toss it into the trash. The flame spreads slowly. I walk into the bedroom and put fire to both the bed and carpet. The rug burns quickly, it's colors turning red and then rapidly black. It must be old. I light the curtains in the bathroom, the towels, the bathmat. The house is on fire. I strike a match and touch it to the edge of Tinre's blanket. It burns too quickly. I walk out of the house, not bothering to shut the door.
Outside, the plants pull at my legs. Stay with us. They say. Burn with us. I struggle past and onto the street. It's cloudy now, and the gentle light casts no shadows. The windows of the house glow orange, and I know inside the furniture is burning, years of artifacts of a life crumbling to ash. Flames lick at the roof and out the door. Tinre's burning. I stand on the street and watch everything be taken by the flame. The plants closest to the house catch fire, spreading their sparks on to the next and next. I back onto the far curb and watch the house glow.
The wind picks up, and I can hear the beams creak and weaken. Suddenly the structure collapses, throwing sparks and embers into the air to be taken by the wind. One beam falls onto a house next door, and it's roof catches fire. I hear sirens. The house is gone: The photos and paintings, linens, the blue satin chair, the gold lace around the door knob, the carved wooden cane. Everything. All but a length of brown velvet around my wrist.
I turn and run.
Goodbye Tinre.
