G r A F f i T I

No One Saw Them Because They Weren't Really There... They DwelledIn The Fallout Of Modern Society...Chasing Cars And Drumming On Tin Cans. Sillouetts Of Two Fucked Up Individals.Loving And Hating Each Day, Knowing That Tomorrow May Not Exist... Not Caring If It Didn't. Skateboards And Smoke Rings. Quarrling And Quarantine.

Love And Loss And Lazyman Lunches

No One Saw Them Because They Weren't Really There

...Trevor And Leigh...

Just Two Names Splashed Against The Bricks

The Vision

Two tater tots smothered in ketchup. Two impish kids up to their eyebrows in mud. One bawling. One chasing. Both working those chubby legs of theirs with endorphin-drenched kicks.

"It's dead!" She cried.

A fleece of brown hair slapped the boy's cheeks. "No shit, Sherlock!"

Truth be told, the three-o-clock was a moody one. All thick clouds and muzzy breaths and air the color of white socks after they've been worn for a while. The waves were black and the voters were blue, typical activity had turned unjustly to a hastened scuttle; everyone was a beetle flipped onto its shell. Legs a-flailin'; eyes a-dartin'. And shadows seemed more ill omened than ever. Just getting longer… and longer… and longer…

It wasn't an afternoon for fun, or laughter, or folks with asthma… and it certainly wasn't an afternoon for beach going. More so to this particular beach. And yet, alas, here they were: a boy of nine and a girl of seven, strangers up until the incident with Mr. Pelican, bending the rocky, grimy sand with toes of sneaker and sandal.

Crying. Sighing.

Running. Chasing.

"It's just a bird!"

One screwed up game of tag.

But… it's not just a bird, the girl thought, as an unsullied wail shrieked from prematurely painted lips. Oh, It just wasn't just a bird at all! In fact, if seen a few days earlier, it could have been a right grand, right splendid sort of bird. Surely not the kind you just saw everyday, scavenging granola bar wrappers from tipped trash cans. No… it would have almost surely been the other sort.

Like a shooting star, or one of Willy Wonka's golden tickets.

It would be the type that you simply had to look at, because not looking seemed out-and-out criminal. One would look at it and cry out in glee. Pointing. Fishing for a camera or wishing they had one. Then a crowd would form.

Deep in the way way back corner of her mind, where she stored dreams and other such castles in the sky, she could almost see it, great wings making thunder in the sky; monstrously huge Sun cooked those wings, dipped as the ends were in black chocolate. Clear blue eyes peered out from the twin yellow patches on its glorious head. And wisdom, as true and old as an elderly woman's journal, poured from those globes, just as water poured from the pouch in its beak.

But not now.

Dear god, now those tiny circles of sea glass were just that…glass. See-through. Hollow. Insubstantial. That great king had lain its head down and fallen asleep with lids unclosed, so all the world could suffer. Perhaps, she thought with despair, Mr. Pelican had wanted this. Had wanted her, who had done no known wrong at all, to see him like this. Lifeless (why weren't his eyes closed?)…Grounded (why were his wings still outstretched?). In all her seven years, never had she felt so confused.

Not when daddy had left her…

Not when mommy had cried over him…

Not when she herself hadn't found any need to cry…

Salty teardrops ribboned the sky. In frenzy, she left the spray of the tide a ways behind her and stumbled, the knees under her jeans scratching against the sand. Not soft sand. Not fine and white, but lumpy and gray. But the denim was thick, and in moments she was up again, blinking those ribbons, bidding those ribbons, to be gone.

Sch! Sch! Sch! What a funny sound that boy's sneakers made. And, oh dear, they sounded close. Sch! Sch! Sch! Not the thud of boots or the click of high heels or the tender patter of slippers. Sch! Sch! Sch! …Sneakers on sand that wasn't sand, but small rocks. Almost gravel. Thud, click, patter, sch! A marching (or perhaps running) band of footsteps. Add the woosh and spray of her sandals and one would be able to form an orchestra.

The boy was getting downright flustered, she could tell. "Just look!" he protested in a voice not yet broken, but past the boys in her grade. "It isn't even mutilated or anything!" Sch! Sch! Sch!

"It's vulgar!"

She prided herself in how easily the word came, and in remembering how her mom had described the fuzzy spider hide-and-seeking in the linen closet a few days earlier. Good word. Made her look smarter.

The boy groaned (and he threw his hands to the sky as well, but she didn't see). "Well yyeeaahh…it's dea-"


More running. More chasing. More sobbing.

As she reached the uphill, crudely painted fingernails, sugarbird purple, grappled at the water-washed rocks. The fingers, then hand, then arm, then girl they were stuck to battled her cries and set her jaw. Set it well. Up and up and up she went. Tears splashed against the slimy stones and slid down and into the crevasses between them.

Poor Mr. Pelican… I need to get away from poor Mr. Pelican…

Behind her, the boy had slowed to a sarcastic trot, still on the sand. And damned if that roguish fourth-grade face hadn't twisted into a smirk. "Aw," he sneered, "don't be such a girl!"

That sure made her brake. Not stop. But certainly hold up. "Well I am a girl! And I'm not a scardie cat or anything… but I certainly don't like Dead! Birds!" Furiously, she rubbed the back of a hand across her eyes. She wasn't crying. Of course not! But she was angry…because this was all –excluding her being out here in the first place, of course- his fault. "And…" He's cruel! "And…" He's vulgar!"An-and you are just a big…fat…OH!"

Just like that, a fragment of broken bottle, small as an eensy chain link, had lunged under one mauve nail. Just tore under there; just shot beneath the damn thing, and to the girl's sheer horror…the little cut began to hurt. And (god forbid) it began to bleed.

Now, little Leigh Cailborne was one tough puppy.


She could hold her own.

Well I am a girl!

And she could put up a good fight.

I'm not a scardiecat or anything!

But she didn't do blood… ever. Pain, sure. But let Satan show his wrath if there was blood. It was one condition to an otherwise rather sturdy mannerism, though it was indeed a condition. Blood, whether it be her own or the long-since-dried fluid of a long-since-dead pelican, made Leigh sick… and made Leigh cry. It made her insides roil, like boiling milk. It just got thicker and thicker until it either flowed over the rim of the pot, or someone turned down the heat...