Brandi Underwood

Smudged

I throw the Twain pages into ember flames. Edges of paper turn crisp brown. Reflecting from my brother’s eyes ink words change hues now inflamed violets. By time twilight runs its time clock, the bottom of the black oil drum ash collects. Bully points out the smile the ash forms. We move along. Towers of charcoal window panes stand evergreen roots a hundred feet long. Billy sees an odd indigo magazine. He sits along the curb edge. His eyes flip through jargon he did not know.

Before the Drop, lands in the central plains grew lush, and kids sat in class and knew that their destiny was like whispers easily re-written. Now out eyes are crisp with dry morning tears. Every sunrise I check Billy for indigo rings almost like bruises. A side effect from radiation. We travel. Our legs grow weak and muscles inflamed by time twilight with few stars. Another side effect partial blindness. Age three towers of red legos towered over me. Now towers of brittle charcoal threaten to crumble. Our bodies turn to ash.

Food: number one priority. Keep moving for Billy’s sake, or his bones will crumble to ash. In Mother’s womb when the Drop came. Radiation seeped through her skin. Now he’ll never know how moist grass feels against your feet. Instead he feels dry lakes of ash. Solomon’s towers are now dawn’s past. Frankenstein, I will remember the story. I will remember inflamed faces as I shoveled dirt upon them. Death’s blanket won’t make me forget mothers crisp eyes of indigo. Six years to the day, to the hour since the Drop. Happy Birthday Billy. Indigo Streams and irises of his eyes still deep, just like hers were. Our night cradles ash flakes. As I lay, I feel the warmth of dying embers. Few travelers along the road but memories of faces are inflamed in the back of my head. In time will I forget what they even look like? No! Just how I will remember the yellow sun. How I miss modern towers. Dreams crystal cut sky with diamonds scattered. The one thing that never changed. Towers with panes of glass still firm in their steel frames, before the flames of burning indigo hues. Story books, fresh from press, typed words to life. Crisp mountains soothed reader’s moral. Now it’s reduce to ash flakes at bottom of countless barrels. I read Frankenstein to Billy. He’ll know stories because of me. I will teach him words are treasures that bring truth inflamed.

The sun rose in the powder sky. Men gazed at clouds with inflamed sins still lingering. Our world was at peace. What a lie. Plane engines buzzed, and boots stomped, towers never stood after the turning of the key. We all know the date October 22 1962. The horizon would shine bright red before the dawn, now indigo shadows replace. “Don’t blink this world changes in an instant.” Ash falls as rain daily. Billy’s tears smudge, but his smile still remains crisp. Crisp, inflamed ash towers no indigo.

{Written by Brandi Underwood}