found amongst my abandoned computer post-its...
it's all fun and games...
Enthused, skipping steps led her to join the fun and games; the joyous laughter compelling... a malicious lure. The childrens' arms are swinging wildly; reckless, careless, free from constraining responsibility... they are running with scissors and her unsuspecting approach is met not with affiliation, but with affliction- her right-eye impaled.
One blade hits the socket, the other dangles, suspended in the rubber of her focal lens. Drips of black Melanin, corneal fluid and blood leaking from the intrusion travel down its cold steel.
She slices her lower eyelid each time she reacts instictively with blinks. She cannot close her other eye because she has never quite learned how to properly wink, but before long it swells with tears enough to make the mob of children circling her like thirsty sharks slowly disappear under water.
The bell signalling the end of lunchbreak tolls loudly over the hush outside, and she feels it violently vibrate right through her skull. The playground snaps routinely back into its usual hum, as the children race to line up in their classes, not wanting to arrive late and be scalded by their teacher. One by one the teachers arrive, and the children fidget cheekily behind their teacher's backs as they are led inside single-file into their classrooms.
She, bearing pain deadlier than toothache, becomes the ultimate example of pre-school peek-a-boo and prepatory hide-and-seek: she who cannot see cannot be seen. Instictively she travels with them, and tries to hide her shameful gulliblility beneath her sunhat. It's not true what the other's are saying, She's not a freak, they didn't trick her, it's all lies. She is as cool as them and is just proving she can handle it.
During story-time Her bottom lip wobbles, and she bites on it to try and keep from crying. She hears the girl beside Her sniggering: 'sooky-sooky-la-la', and She snaps back angrily to explain they're not tears, it's the scissors and she cannot help it.
The teacher hears them and with one hand lowers the book to point the other hand to her lips. 'Sshhh!', she hisses through clenched teeth, her patience wearing thin. Her muscles tense and show through the holes in her long red sleeves. The teacher's heart remains caged within her ribby chest.
She, the one dizzy with shock, cannot see this showy vascularity, but can certainly feel the horrid silence of everyone stopping to glare at her for disrupting the telling of a modern Bo-Peep. The teacher's up to the part where Bo-Peep, after finding her sheep, is in the process of shearing them to the point of invisibility again. The kid's love this magic 'invisibility' stuff. Like X-men and lemon juice.
She is poked below the ribs by the girl next to her. She flinches and the scissors swing out into the head of the boy sitting directly in front of her. He flings one hand behind him to swipe the scissors away, the other shoots up and waves at the teacher. "Miss! she stabbed me!" he squeals, and the teacher's knuckles whiten as she snaps shut Modern Bo-Peep. The girl pinches our playground victim and rasps the question "why did you stab him? he didn't do anything to you", and the whole class falls silent in combined expectance of an answer. The teacher sends her to the corner, and fails her on reading comprehension. It's obvious to the teacher that anyone stupid enough to make friends with scissors is bound to be unable to follow the pictures that are held up at the end of each page, the visuals that should help explain the meaning of 'shearing sheep' to anyone struggling with dictation alone. The teacher sees the salty secretion travelling down our victim's blood-crusted face, and sees it fit to strengthen her with the phrase "you're not a crybaby". Giggles bounce off the classroom's four walls like the canyon's echo of hungry heyenas.
Quietly in the corner, she stands obediently; a 'good sport' waiting for the game to be over, for herself to grow up and out of the blind-eye the world has turned upon her.
The bell rings again, she collapses under her hightened senses.
It's time to go home.
Enthused, skipping steps led her to join the fun and games; the joyous laughter compelling... a malicious lure. The childrens' arms are swinging wildly; reckless, careless, free from constraining responsibility... they are running with scissors and her unsuspecting approach is met not with affiliation, but with affliction- her right-eye impaled.
One blade hits the socket, the other dangles, suspended in the rubber of her focal lens. Drips of black Melanin, corneal fluid and blood leaking from the intrusion travel down its cold steel.
She slices her lower eyelid each time she reacts instictively with blinks. She cannot close her other eye because she has never quite learned how to properly wink, but before long it swells with tears enough to make the mob of children circling her like thirsty sharks slowly disappear under water.
The bell signalling the end of lunchbreak tolls loudly over the hush outside, and she feels it violently vibrate right through her skull. The playground snaps routinely back into its usual hum, as the children race to line up in their classes, not wanting to arrive late and be scalded by their teacher. One by one the teachers arrive, and the children fidget cheekily behind their teacher's backs as they are led inside single-file into their classrooms.
She, bearing pain deadlier than toothache, becomes the ultimate example of pre-school peek-a-boo and prepatory hide-and-seek: she who cannot see cannot be seen. Instictively she travels with them, and tries to hide her shameful gulliblility beneath her sunhat. It's not true what the other's are saying, She's not a freak, they didn't trick her, it's all lies. She is as cool as them and is just proving she can handle it.
During story-time Her bottom lip wobbles, and she bites on it to try and keep from crying. She hears the girl beside Her sniggering: 'sooky-sooky-la-la', and She snaps back angrily to explain they're not tears, it's the scissors and she cannot help it.
The teacher hears them and with one hand lowers the book to point the other hand to her lips. 'Sshhh!', she hisses through clenched teeth, her patience wearing thin. Her muscles tense and show through the holes in her long red sleeves. The teacher's heart remains caged within her ribby chest.
She, the one dizzy with shock, cannot see this showy vascularity, but can certainly feel the horrid silence of everyone stopping to glare at her for disrupting the telling of a modern Bo-Peep. The teacher's up to the part where Bo-Peep, after finding her sheep, is in the process of shearing them to the point of invisibility again. The kid's love this magic 'invisibility' stuff. Like X-men and lemon juice.
She is poked below the ribs by the girl next to her. She flinches and the scissors swing out into the head of the boy sitting directly in front of her. He flings one hand behind him to swipe the scissors away, the other shoots up and waves at the teacher. "Miss! she stabbed me!" he squeals, and the teacher's knuckles whiten as she snaps shut Modern Bo-Peep. The girl pinches our playground victim and rasps the question "why did you stab him? he didn't do anything to you", and the whole class falls silent in combined expectance of an answer. The teacher sends her to the corner, and fails her on reading comprehension. It's obvious to the teacher that anyone stupid enough to make friends with scissors is bound to be unable to follow the pictures that are held up at the end of each page, the visuals that should help explain the meaning of 'shearing sheep' to anyone struggling with dictation alone. The teacher sees the salty secretion travelling down our victim's blood-crusted face, and sees it fit to strengthen her with the phrase "you're not a crybaby". Giggles bounce off the classroom's four walls like the canyon's echo of hungry heyenas.
Quietly in the corner, she stands obediently; a 'good sport' waiting for the game to be over, for herself to grow up and out of the blind-eye the world has turned upon her.
The bell rings again, she collapses under her hightened senses.
It's time to go home.