You can see Earth from here. And I guess they do that on purpose. So you remember. So you can never forget why you got sent up here in the first place. We can see when the storms come. They swirl over the surface like candy pinwheels with sugar arms. The snowy ones are the best. Fluffy like the whipped peaks of the lemon meringue pies my nan made every time it got a little warm.
And we try to name them ourselves.
But our guesses are never right.
And no one cares.
Have you ever been angry?
Like the type of fury that begins as a hot seed in the base of your stomach. And the thing or person who provokes the anger, waters the seed with hateful words. Their taunts tempting you. And it all hatching inside you like the birth of a tree.
The heat of it branching out from your stomach into your veins, causing your blood to race; the muscles in your limbs twitching with furious electricity; the trunk of the tree squishing your stomach, making you nauseous with resentment; sharp twigs and heavy roots pricking your insides, poking at a sore heart.
That’s what happened to me.
They sent me here for a bad temper. Well, that’s what my entry card says.
And for setting fires.
I called them making stars.
Newspapers never report the truth. They’ll print anything for a buck.
My whole town thinks I just went around setting things on fire for the hell of it. The articles had the nerve to say that.
But they don’t know. I’m making living and breathing sculptures. They take some of the anger away.
My favorite sculpture was on my bedroom ceiling. Every morning before I got here, I used to let my eyes settle into admiring the sky above me. I’d formed a midnight sky on my bedroom ceiling out of clay, paint, old sheets and other things I’d rummaged up from the garage and attic. A bumpy purple blackness crawled over the white surface like a moss canopy. I’d formed a large white moon out of broken dish plates our neighbors, the Green family, threw out when they moved. The jagged cream disk floated in a dark abyss above me. The stars in my sky dangled from sturdy fishing wire and were odd-shaped balls of smooth, fire-colored glass I’d made in art class last year. Draped over me was how I imagined the sky to be if it hardened around us, trapping everyone on Earth. I’d started it in 7th grade when I decided to become a sculpturist. Neither of my parents looked up or commented as it grew from a tiny splotch in the right-hand corner to a full blanket over the universe that was my bedroom.
I miss seeing that every morning.
Now, there’s only grey above me.
And if the sky hardened. We’d get stuck in this Internment box frozen forever. A new non-moving moon.
The Internment place is for liars. It rotates around the earth for every lie you’ve ever told. And there are a lot of liars here. We’ll be turning for a long, long time.
And they won’t let me go home.
I started collecting matchboxes when I was six-years-old, and my pop left one between the cushions of the living room couch. I would sniff the strip that you rub the stick across. It smelled like gum and ash and newborn fire. I loved that smell. I could catch the scent in my dreams, and know my pop had lit a cigarette wherever he was in the house.
I burned down a house.
I told them the truth. It was an accident. I just wanted to see the fire float through the air like stars. So I made a roof sculpture.
I wanted a bonfire that floated through the air. I wanted my own universe. I wanted to feel alive.
But it was windy. And next door, there was a little girl in the house. And when my bonfire sculpture reached its full height, it started to spit, and spread. The whole thing got out of control.
My parents didn’t even take me to the ship that brought me here. They packed me up before the sun came out, and set my things outside. My father couldn’t stop shaking his head like his disappointment in me had become a neurological twitch. He packed his yells and scolds away like the boxes of historical books in his office. He said nothing, rubbed at his beard and kissed his mother, my nan, on the cheek. Lena, my baby sister, was the only one that hugged me after he placed my suitcase in the trunk.
My mother barely looked at me as her mother-in-law and I sailed out of our neighborhood in a green Chrysler before dawn. The Internment officers followed us.
My mother believes I’m bent like a piece of metal, a twisted version of the daughter she raised. My older brother Donovan didn’t drive up from college to say goodbye or offer support during my trial. He couldn’t reschedule his finals.
We drove for thirteen hours. To the South. A place where they pick up the bad kids.
The old, Spanish moss trees lined the highways. Their thick and ancient limbs left heavy slices of darkness over the car. Like a black quilt of interlocking shadows. I thought they’d cut them all down to make everything look the same.
There are no trees in Internment. Just grey. And lies. And those have no color, but taste like bitterness.
My mother would hate this place. It smells like the South. And she hates that. She always said you can smell it fifty miles out before hitting the southern line. I’d ask her what it smells like. She’d give the same answer every time, “The stink reminds me of rotten magnolias, dried blood and floating dust. It makes me mad.”
I’m going to be here a long time. And I’ve become a different girl. Sometimes I don’t recognize my reflection. At home, I wasn’t the cute, friendly girl who sang in the choir, participated in book club or took up knitting. I was the girl who thought about kicking the neighbor’s dog when his howling interrupted my concentration when sculpting. Or the girl who’d rather gnaw off her own arm than let one of the sweaty-palmed high school boys hold it. The girl who felt high school programmed her to think like everyone else, erasing her own unique thoughts and impulses, turning her into pre-packaged meat like the rest of ‘em. Sliced, wrapped in clear saran wrap and sent out into the world with a sticker on their foreheads.
I can see stars falling from the sky now. They soar through the air like hot glittering clouds. I imagine them as tiny bonfires. Tiny perfect sculptures. Pure vessels.
I wonder who they scorch below.
And I wish every night that they’ll hit us, and turn all our bodies and lies into ash and dust.
The days of lemon meringue pies are probably behind her forever, along with dances with dance cards and white gloves and trolleys and fresh flowers delivered every day. But Mr. Reed said Saskatoon berries make a good pie, and Sansa’s determined to embrace new things, the things that are actually within her reach. So she agreed to try Saskatoon berries and he sent his son, Jojen, out to pick some for her, after she announced she wanted to make something special for dinner tonight to serve their expected guest, Sergeant Jon Snow.
This one was really hard!! ;-; I love food so much… I especially love sweet things. I couldn’t decide on one so here are my top two: ice cream and pies!!
Ice cream is magical and special. I love all ice creams. I get so excited about ice cream, sometimes it's embarrassing. My favorites are mint, coffee, caramel, cookies n cream, almond, and coconut related flavors ahhhhhh I want ice cream now u-u
Also pies!!! I love love love simple pies (apple and peach and lemon meringue pies!!) and all savory pies (chicken pot pies, salmon pies, meat pies hnnngh)!!! I love anything wrapped in butter+flour magic. Fancy pies are great, but when you are in a pie crisis, I recommend McDonald’s apple pies because they are cute and delicious.