Vague Intentions
By Daniel J. Newcomer

We could pretend that the sky wasn’t a summer evening red at all hours of the day, including the haunting hours of the night.

We might think that the sun, behind miles and miles of clouds, still believes that we are somewhere here, raising our arms with hopes to embrace the light.

We all have heard of the disease, first apparent on the ears, and prominent in the air that we are taught to never breathe, an apple red sky prevails.

Yet we all know and yearn of the snow; black and ashy, but perfectly compactable, just waiting to be thrown, rolled, and played with to no avail.

The icicles always pretend to smile, and as they diligently hang in their lazy prominence they represent a mere fossil of the toxic water that leaks, not rains, from the clouds above.

The Headmaster is aware of the danger, always checking our ears for the disease, and reluctant as always to this time of the day, for he only read about love.

But it is only five minutes until recess; the final accumulation of tender eagerness to expel all that energy that is pushing out from the inside of our thighs. 

The cherry red sky leaks into the halls, while outside the icicles call, the black and ashy snow is so presently delightful as it falls; recess is the only thing on my eyes. 

Only four minutes to go and no time to spend, our Headmaster makes one final check of our ears and sadly, yet joyfully, watches us put on our coats as if it’s the end.

We laugh and we push, whipping scarves around our necks. I steal Tommy’s gloves and hide them in his boots; he asks and he pries but everybody refuses to lend.

Sandy always dresses so quick; a pink bonnet compliments her blue scarf, and pink mittens with puffballs dangle and sharpen her wide and eager smile.

I can imagine the black and ashy snow crumbling and falling from my mittens. I help anxious and frantic Tommy to his gloves, as the best part of the day should last at least a while. 

We have coats and hats, gloves and scarves; the bell finally rings and we run faster than we thought we could run. The passion red sky invites all of us from the other side of the door. 

We have our gasmasks on, tidy and fit, and break through that inviting door.  Under that rose sky we trample on the black and ashy snow with hearts that soar. 

After a morning of waiting, recess is finally here, and from my mittens the black and ashy snow crumbles and falls to the ground.  

Tommy packs an ash-ball and throws it at Mikey, which hits him right in his gasmask, covering his mask’s peepholes with ash. He tries to find Tommy but runs aimlessly around and around.

I jump up and down with Sandy, her crystal blue eyes radiating from beneath her peepholes. We all simply do not care, nor are we that aware, for the swing sets and monkey bars from the history books. 

Who needs that when we have each other? We could pretend that everything wasn’t as perfect as it is now, that everything is as it looks. 

All eight of us combine our efforts and build a black and ashy snowman; Sandy is the first to help me roll the base, as I keep slipping and falling into the black and ashy snow. 

With the snowman complete, and the black and ashy snow falling more heavily from the blood red sky, I feel as if recess might be almost over, though we never really know.

Norah, in her terminal glee, jumps on Tommy’s back and commands him to run around. He immediately slips and falls to the ground. 

Norah, oh no it can’t be, falls to the black and ashy ground herself while only holding on to Tommy’s gasmask; we all gasp as loud as we can but nobody hears a sound.

The Headmaster, his fears in light, sprints out to where Tommy lies, and from Norah’s gasmask I can see all the tears as she cries.

Tommy doesn’t move, but he blinks ever so softly, his eyes fixated on the cardinal rose sky. We all stare and watch, as if we forgot how to say good-byes. 




The End