Crack by Lisa Doyle I was sitting on the stoop overlooking my backyard. Wispy smoke from my cigarette blended into the morning fog. The best part of morning. The neighbor boy from two houses over, Johnson's kid, Daniel, had been standing in the middle of my back yard for the past minute or so. He'd been kicking a few loose rocks around the slab of pavement separating my yard from his. It was as if he was killing time before he made his way into my yard. Now he stood there, silent. His navy blue Jansport was strapped over his shoulders. The back porch light cast a weak glow over the lawn. Daniel stared at the patch of ground at his feet. "Look, Mr. Ridley, don't ignore it," he said to me. His voice was pleading. His eyes appeared white. The light barely extended into the shadows of the yard. "You better move it," I said. "You do realize it's six in the morning?" He shrugged, and brushed wisps of his thick, brown hair away from his eyes. "I like to get up early," he said. I looked toward the area of dirt in front of his feet. A gaping mistake in my otherwise healthy lawn. The bare earth of the patch radiated through the fog. The next morning I half expected Daniel to be out there again. I pulled on an old undershirt and a brown wool sweater, too worn to be scratchy. I peered out of the bedroom blinds. The kid wasn't there. I swallowed; my mouth felt too dry. The patch had extended in splotches beyond its original spot. My head ached. I squeezed my eyes shut. The shape of the patch remained in outlines of purple and red behind my eyelids. I made my way downstairs, scavenged a bottle of expired Tylenol from the back of the medicine cabinet. Popped a few with some orange juice while I waited for the coffee to brew. Filled my mug, breathed in the steam. I took it with me out on the stoop to smoke. I set my mug down on the cement step and walked over to the patch. I knelt and brought my eyes physically close to the surface. I was fixated by a fine crack in the surface of the dirt. It looked perfectly crafted, as if an artist had painted it in light, black strokes. I was taken by its intricate patterns, and when I walked back over to the step, my coffee had gone cold. That night the rain beat against the roof above my bedroom. I slept through the obnoxious banter of early morning radio hosts when my alarm went off. I stumbled to my dresser. The side of my head pulsated. I imagined my mind to be on fire. I managed my way to the kitchen and sat down at a stool at the counter. One leg was loose and the seat wobbled. I steadied myself against the cool granite edge of the counter. I sat for awhile and watched through the screen door window. The view was blurry and I was overcome with an urge to open the door. Needles of pained swarmed my head when I stood. I walked to the door and opened it. The grass was shriveled into crisp, browned remains. Only a few flashes of green remained along the edges of the fence that bordered my property. The rain continued to fall and droplets reached the now bare ground of my yard. The plain dirt revealed a gigantic web of cracks, spreading outward from the patch I'd seen yesterday. My breath caught in my throat as I felt my heart pounding. It thumped in my ears and I couldn't stand the sensation. I raced inside, letting the back door close behind me. I closed the blinds in the kitchen and took the steps upstairs two at a time. The ringing in my ears only grew worse after I was in my bed. I held my heavy fleece blanket tightly over my head so that it was nearly smothering. The closeness to an escape was comforting. The last morning, Daniel was back. My fingers grasped the doorknob of my screen door. I saw the tousled brown hair and the familiar blue backpack. He sat on my stoop with his knees hugged tightly to his chest. I opened the door; Daniel turned and looked at me, but he didn't say a word. He scooted until his back rested against the siding. I stepped further onto the stoop. The screen door slapped shut. I began to shiver as though I'd been doused with ice water. The intricate system of lines and curves had completely enveloped the stoop. There was no bare ground left to walk on. In that moment my world seemed to sway from side to side. I needed something, anything, to slam against my head, to relieve the pressure. Fireworks of red and orange and black exploded behind my eyes. I squeezed my eyes open and tried again to focus on the cracks. But focusing wouldn't stop them. The lines of perfect black etched through the cement of the small step and crept toward my scuffed, plaid slippers. |
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© 2007 prickofthespindle.com |
Lisa Doyle studied creative writing as an undergraduate student at |