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February 18, 2004

Posted by anoddphrase in Uncategorized.

this was for a ticket in english, based, as u can see (:P), on faulkner’s design… if u can understand even half of it, so much kudos for u 😛


Mr. Vermillion

English 350

February 18, 2004


Of Red Hair and [She Shoes]

                          [Shoe Shine]



            The bother of an and/or brother, whose smile had always been shy of hesitance—reticence, lashes curlier than my own, whose note was made in that his manner had never been quite as frank as mine, walked up the steps, one at a time, rather than my and our usual two, his head and mine, both, turning at the softer, lighter, far more feminine steps than either of ours that followed after—its beat out of time to the familiar rhythm of that the hardwood stairs was used to—quicker, almost easier, but with a certain type of given grace and patience that our family, of its entirety, especially us of the younger generation, seems to lack.  We had scrambled up those steps since our very youth, David and I.  The length of my feet had always been smaller than his, yet still longer than those limbs of the younger brother that we both shared somewhere along the way, whose shoes had once been our own, but now had followed in our footsteps off to the isolation of pre-pubescence and Playstation madness.  Though he was not to be found in sight for a good few years, his shoes, along with our own, rested at the bottom of the staircase, side by side with my many, David’s few, my mother’s worn, my father’s torn, and that single pair of stranger black platforms that belonged to none of us.

            But this flash of reddish, coppery ginger hair was as strange to me, among the shiny luster of darkness of threads that remained on our heads, as were these tossed and forlorn, aside, shoes as I saw them, later on.  She had sat in the car, ahead of me, in the preferential seat, in front.  I had then but glimpsed those threads of hers in contrast to David’s own shorter locks and in comparatively, a glance to my own.  She was then, in my mind, labeled the ‘Redhead’—though that hair remained just short of a deep, true, red or even the bright and flaming orange, reminiscent, because always paired with, of freckles and toothy grins.  It was more of a rich chestnut with a hue of coppery shine.  And eyes, blue as the winter sky on a clear day, to match with it.  Even now, I would have to say that even I thought she was, and still is, fair to beautiful (especially and even with that geeky, dorky twinge, that traced the uneven buck-like incisors at the front of her jaw).

            I always knew that David had good taste, somewhere.

            Even if it was only in that shallow good taste for aesthetic pleasing, as now is shown broadly and openly to the rest of the world—or at least for us—to see.

            Well, these eyes, of seasons blue came immediately to me, shone with curiosity and brightness.  No surprise, I thought at the time, that he’s so attracted to her.  But I waited, still, for the substance behind them to appear.  In some ways, I think he did too.  In many ways, we were all disappointed.

            A few days, weeks, or months earlier, I had found a note, scribbled on blue-lined notebook paper with the faded, wet marks of highlighter, that seemed to have dripped with water at some point, the yellow ink running variously, apologizing for something or other and calling him, Dave, which at the time seemed foreign even to my mind, much less to the unpracticed pronunciation of the formation of these syllables in my mouth—signed ‘Heather’ with a heart.  This Heather with a heart of ice and stone, only to be chipped, and cracked, at a later time by an Italian (only naturally) whose sister whose mother we’d practiced and played softball with, and who had driven me to a softball game despite my excuses of a broken foot, yes, this Heather gave me a smile too shiny with the gloss of politeness and refinement that I should have then, jumped up with a start and smudged the shininess of the false leather in her shoes right then and there, streaking it as she would hopefully stumble on the steps out of our, my, my brother’s House.  Our Home.  I’d gotten there long before she had—thirteen years give or take fourteen months.

            It was my right and I would have taken it, with or without the hard, brittle smile, I would get good at giving the others who would play with my brother as he pursued them.  Cats.  All of them.  Like cats with a dead mouse between their paws.  He had always been a bit of an idiot, dead in the head when it came to women, or much anything else that didn’t have, immediately, to do with the numbers and science of mathematics and specific logic.  What logic that didn’t have to do with life, he had always excelled.  My, our, parents had always said that life might not necessarily be where his forte lay, but mine did, and if only we could somehow fuse to create something, better and new for the world—maybe, someday, with the wonders of technology, or maybe just Matthew.  He had always been younger and brightly more promising than both of us, combined, it seemed.

            But yes, this girl.  This redheaded cat with ginger strands of thread.  At that smile, of plastic, white shine, that was tossed to me (and David, perhaps, like a bone to a dog) casually, I should have seen the way the long, clawlike and tapering fingers of hers would easily and without another thought snap between forefinger and thumb the fragile heart of that brother or bother of mine, as she made her way up my, our, steps, at my, our, home, up from the black Jeep that my brother had been using for weeks, months, maybe even days, now, to haul himself and her wherever she wanted to go.




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