Neighborhood
Justin Scavo
The neighborhood was teeming with girthy houses, clinging on to dry pieces of land--perched upon a dry hill overlooking a dry town. These houses had open porches, slanted doors, and ashen windows, placed upon earth like meteors.
It was fall, and winter was just around the corner. The dry air whizzed around the neighborhood’s residents, and soon the snow was to come. The snow came sooner than later, and suffocated and captured the residents, forcing them inside their houses like a mass exodus. But by noon, the snow melted, and the crisp and toasty sun came out, leaving no indication of the brutal snowstorm. Maybe nature was giving the residents one last chance.
The residents went outside with caution, and watched upon the town below. They felt as if the city was not theirs, and they felt as if their bodies were trapped, like rodents in a mouse trap.
“I want to go visit the town!” exclaimed a young boy, who appeared to be no older than five. He wanted to sound bold and brave, and say something that no resident had ever said before. He wanted to be a poet, say things that transcended the normal thoughts of the residents. But the residents were also poets, instead of cultivating a refinement like the boy, they cultivated debt, poverty, and vice.
But despite this, they wanted to stay in their little shady neighborhood. They did not want to take refuge in the town, as the neighborhood had stolen their hearts a long while ago.
Even though winter has passed, the trees were dead looking, and the twigs were like scythes, jutting out into the open air. The leaves were brown and dry, leaving no room for new buds to grow into flowers and bloom. The tree shivered despite the warm air, and it anticipated its own death.
So the residents also anticipated their own death. They too were dead looking like the trees, and dry. The people now resembled dark phantoms, products of their own vices. They wanted to surrender.
But something broke this death and silence.
“I want to go visit the town!” exclaimed the young boy again, in the same cheerful tone. And with this, the residents realized once again, that they could not leave everything behind for a new future. They must stay here, and gallantly embrace their fate, and drown in their own pessimism.
They looked back at their girthy houses, edged with black windows and ashen paint. Toxic fumes escaping from the chimneys. Basketball hoops lined with darkness, and flowerbeds, dirty and wet, cast in dry brown sodder. The flowers trembled as did the people. And the little boy watched these flowers, with some vague optimism gripping him, believing that his heart will not be broken.
