Sarcophagus

Here is a girl.
Or rather, a sculpture of a girl,
Carefully chiseled by experience itself
And sanded down to precision over the course of many years
From a distance she looks human.
Her clothes, her hair, her bag on her shoulder
Blend her into the mass around her known as society.
But she is not a human.
She is nothing but a statue- unmovable, unwavering, stoic.
Her eyes are but mirrors, reflecting.
They reflect the faces and the emotions of those who pass by her.
They agree and they sympathize,
And sometimes they make people forget that by themselves,
They are emotionless.
They are only mirrors, after all.
And like all mirrors, they go blank when the image leaves.
Mirrors are deceiving sometimes, but they never lie.
Only the rest of her does.
Beneath her armoured skin lives chaos.
It spits and burns like bile,
Trapped inside its stone dungeon.
It churns around her insides like a venomous snake
And she fights it.
She lashes back at it, suppresses it.
Sometimes she manages to squeeze it so tightly,
It oozes out a substance that, only in the vaguest of senses,
Resembles happiness.
And only because it has nothing left to give.
This is the viscous substance that slides unwillingly out of her skin,
Into the outside world.
It too, is deceptive.
It is poison, but it makes her seem ever so slightly mirthful.
Thankfully, it is all the world needs to be convinced that she is an ordinary human being.
Ordinary. Human. Two things she will never be.

Of Frost and Frozen Tears

Anna spent hours getting ready for that night, standing in front of her little dresser mirror and poring over her shabby selection of powders and lipsticks. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had, so it would have to do. She carefully extracted a simple black hair pin from the top left drawer of her dresser. It had suffered a little throughout her younger adolescent days, but she was proud that she had kept it somewhat intact for the four years since it was placed in her hands on her twelfth birthday. Delicately, she pulled back a lock of her wavy brown hair and secured it just above her ear, revealing a sparkling teardrop earring that she had ‘borrowed’ from her mother. The little frozen tear twinkled happily in the light, but a pang of guilt tugged at her heart. She shook it away. I will return them to Mama’s room as soon as I come home, She reassured herself, Mama will never know. Turning back to her tabletop, Anna selected a subtle brown powder for her eyelids and some nice red lipstick. She looked at her little mirror and at the girl smiling back at her. The girl looked older than Anna, and more mature. She wore those crystal earrings comfortably, casually even, as if they were part of her everyday outfit, just one of the hundreds of pairs she owned. She was the kind of girl that Dmitri would take out to dinner.

Quietly, Anna slipped out of her room, down the narrow hallway, and out the front door. She locked it behind her and slipped the key deep into her jacket pocket. The night was chilly. Although there was no dusting of frost on the grass that morning, the icy air that swirled around in the late evening carried the grave warning of winter’s first merciless frost. Anna’s footsteps fell softly on the cold sidewalk. She loved the Sunday shoes she was wearing, loved the faithful and humble way they made her walk in God’s presence. They were, in theory, supposed to be reserved for church, but she simply couldn’t resist wearing them on her special night. Despite her momentary happiness, Anna shivered. Her jacket didn’t offer much protection from the cold anymore, but she knew her family couldn’t afford to replace it until next winter. Reaching into her pockets, she realized she had forgotten her gloves. Her fingertips began to ache, but she didn’t have time to go back. She was already running late, and Dmitri would not be happy if she kept him waiting.

Finally, Anna arrived at the cosy restaurant, “The French Kiss”, where she was supposed to meet Dmitri. She glanced around. He was nowhere to be seen. She cautiously pushed open the glass door, thinking he might be waiting inside. Instead of seeing his handsome face, she was greeted by a tall waiter, who looked at her expectedly.

“Um... hi,” she stammered, “I’m supposed to meet someone here at eight o’clock.” The large clock at the back of the restaurant glared at her with its minute hand pointing to a giant number one, as if mocking her lateness. The waiter nodded, then went to consult a fancy-looking book.

“Name?”

“Dmitri. Dmitri Stalinov.”

The waiter looked confused. “No one by that name has made any reservation here.”

“Are you sure?” The waiter nodded again. “Alright then... thank you,” murmured Anna. She turned around slowly, confused and a little hurt, made her out the door, stepping into the cold night once again. A chilly wind had picked up since she had last been outside, and it nipped viciously at her fingertips. She pulled her coat tighter around her thin torso, but shivered nonetheless.

She waited. Through the restaurant’s large front window, Anna could see the hands on that giant clock on the wall. It was ten minutes past eight. She stared at the clock until the minute hand glided down one notch: eleven past eight. There was a couple in the restaurant whom Anna hadn’t noticed earlier; they were talking over elegant champagne flutes, and the sparkling, bubbly liquid seemed to reflect their expressions as they looked into each other’s eyes. Anna couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. With a sigh, she peeled her gaze back to the lonely sidewalk. A mother walked by her on the street, holding hands with her two young children. Twenty past eight. A group of students, perhaps a little older than Anna, sauntered by, chatting and laughing merrily. Eight thirty. The young couple exited the restaurant with their arms linked, content after their romantic night. Quarter to nine. Anna couldn’t feel her toes anymore; no amount of shivering seemed enough to produce any more warmth in her body. Dmitri still had not come. She noticed a telephone booth across the street from where she stood. It looked almost as desolate as she did, but at least it would shield her from the wind.

As soon as Anna shut the door of the telephone booth, she felt better. The draft didn’t howl as loudly inside, nor did it bite so harshly. As she gazed forlornly at the telephone, she groped inside her threadbare pockets for some spare change. Of course, there was none. She reached half-heartedly into the coin disposal hole near the bottom of the phone box. To her surprise, she pulled out a coppery disc. She smiled, and fed the coin to the telephone. Her fingers, even in their numbness, still managed to punch in the number code she took such care to memorize. She waited as the dial tone sounded... once... twice... on the third ring, a gruff voice answered. “Stalinov house, how can I help you?” He must be the butler.

“Hi, my name is Anna. Is Dmitri there, please?”

“One moment.”

Anna heard the muffled sound of the receiver being set down, then footsteps walking away across a marble floor. There was silence for a moment, then whispers not far away. Anna could tell it was two men conversing by the depth of their voices, but she couldn’t make out the words. One of them sounded vaguely like Dmitri, but she couldn’t quite tell. The whispering stopped, and footsteps made their way back to the phone. Her heart skipped a little as she expected the sound of his voice to flow through the receiver. He would speak to her in the charming way that always made her heart melt; he would apologize to her and promise to make up for it. And she would forgive him, because she loved him. But instead of Dmitri’s voice that spoke to her, it was the butler’s again. “He is not here right now.”

Her heart plummeted. “Do you know where he is? Did he tell you where he was going tonight?” Her eyes began to fill with tears, “Whether he was going to dinner with a girl named Anna Novakovsky?”

“No, he gave me no information, and the name means nothing to me.”

And with that, the phone clicked off.  Before she could stop them, Anna’s tears spilled over her eyelashes, onto her powdered cheek. The butler’s words played over and over in her head. The name means nothing to me. Your name means nothing. Nothing. Her tears had unleashed a flood, and it rushed down her face in rivulets with every heartbroken sob. It smeared her lipstick into an unrecognizable splotch, but she didn’t care. Her heart felt the same way, after all. For the first time in her life, she felt truly and hopelessly alone.

Outside, frost began to settle on the small city. Tiny drops of moisture solidified and settled on the ground, on the sides of buildings, and on an insignificant telephone booth. There they glittered, like frozen tears glittered on the cheeks of a particular young girl; the first ice of winter and the first ice of human hurt.

Sestina- Frosted Glass

A floating figure cloaked in translucent brilliance

Glides over the land, crowned in glimmering silver.

She dances a graceful duet with her own shadow,

Then she descends over the land in practiced silence,

Her every step quieter than the whisper

Of a pin as it hits a floor made of glass.

She reaches out her fingers to a stained glass

Window, admiring its polished brilliance.

But to the glass she offers the slightest whisper,

Which clouds it, transforming it to icy silver.

She stares at the mirror in awe, barely noticing that silence

Had fallen with the night, leaving her in cold shadows

Realizing, she touches her crown, then turns to the shadow,

“Is this what I am crowned for?” She asks the looking glass.

But only her reflection in the ice stares back, silently.

Suddenly, her mind, once free and filled with brilliant

Thoughts, feels trapped underneath her wreath of silver,

Longing to once again chase the wind’s whisper.

She flees her thoughts, flying past branches whispering

Desperate warnings as she plunges into the shadowy

Night. She doesn’t know she leaves behind a silver

Streak of frost and coats bare branches with glass.

She doesn’t know, until she turns around to a brilliant

Snow globe scene, her doing, standing in frozen silence.

It dawns on her that her coronation is not a gift, but a silent

Curse, to steal the breath of even the most cautious whisperer

And from everything else around her, to turn nature into a brilliant

Picture, but only coloured in with white and shadows.

Beautiful as it is, it may as well be carved of glass,

Captured and drained of life, with only a dusting of silver.

As her cursed fingertips turn the entire world silver,

She can find no words to speak, despite her silencing

Everything around her. The rose-coloured glasses

She once wore have disappeared without a whisper,

Leaving her alone in a land darkened by her own shadows.

To think she could have been something brilliant.

With a sigh, her glassy eyes turn towards the land of silver;

Sparkling, brilliant, crystalline, icy, cold, motionless, silent.

“Winter has come”, she whispers, then vanishes into the shadows.