500 words or less

"Bad Posture" by Artist Lisa Rae Winant

Image used by permission of the Artist
12 x 14 / oil on panel

Her hand reached out to touch someone, but her jagged edges were too sharp to let anyone close. Her posture was sunken, afraid to stand straight after being bent and broken all too many times. Green nothing stretched out to her, bringing her back to her heaven of smoky warmth filling her throat, her body, her soul, clogging up the feelings she wished to let out. Breathe. A prying eye leaned over her shoulder exhaling heavily the smell of sharp onions and spice, enveloping her.

“What is it you are looking at?” he roughly stated, all the while being much too close to someone who wanted no one around. No response was given to his words. Charcoal dripped down her eyes washing itself into her pale cheeks. She lights up a cigarette, sparking fire. Breathe. The unwelcome visitor walked away, limping whilst holding a wooden cane, clutching it firmly in his right hand. Pastel surrounded her in a circling motion lifting her up, and driving dust and dirt away.

Each day she waits. Waits. Wondering if by some miracle the something she was waiting for would arrive. Pushing air, she outreaches her hand each time, hit with nothing more than another gust. She waits. The man comes back some days later, leaning over her shoulder again, smelling this time of leather and peppermint.

“What are you looking at, dear?” This time he speaks with compassion. But no answer is spoken. Again the woman watches the gentleman walk off, struggling to gain control of his cane, shaking his head at her. And she waits. Waits. The same array of color surrounds her tightly, wrapping her fragile body into a wave of melodic silence; temping her to fall into its grace. Another cigarette is lit, surging another fire right in front of her sunken eyes.

Moons pass by, and each twilight she grows frailer. The elder approaches again, this time, without a word spoken. He stands next to her, still close enough as he had in past days; close enough to feel the chill of her. He smells of menthol; hard smoky familiarness this time. Extending his arm, he flickers his lighter at her, igniting the cigarette in her hand. She smiles, lightly. And they stand. Not a word passed between them. And they wait together this time. The ocean of air did not surrounded her or consume her this time. Everything is going to be alright. And they wait.