Gone Lawn
a journal of literature
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Gone Lawn 14
Spring, 2014

Featured Novel Excerpt
New Works

Annabelle Edwards


Breaking my fragile vocal cords, I let out a livid scream. "I hate you," I yell with passion fierce as Romeo and Juliet committing suicide to be with one another. Our neighbors could feel the vibrations beneath the floorboards without even being in the room. They swallowed a handful of ibuprofen along with the cream colored carpet and both tried to drown out the noise with freshly fluffed pillows. My feet scrape the carpet as I stomp away. Once in seclusion, I allow my hands to rub the rough edges and bask in the comfort of soothing burn.

A friend, it has been through everything I have been. It has been present for all of our fights and always been there. Without saying a word, without doing a thing. Dependable, when you never were. It need not destroy itself with age. Rather, it puts in twenty times the effort to exist. To keep the ground steady for us.

It's odd how I despise you when all we are arguing about is the unavoidable. Human evolution and miscommunications of the heart.

I strain to hear yours in the background as I wail, a second playing out like eons. Before the fallout, the eons were violin string seconds. Sharp and to the point, I told you to spend another hour here so we could finish the song.

We need to sync ourselves with each other and rediscover the music. I don't know what will happen if we can't. I'm struggling in the silence of your violent riptide. I lie still. It never gives. I flail about and desperately scan the shore for the tiniest shadow. Not a soul. There is no one to wade into the water, freestyle effortlessly, and carry me back to the familiar sand.

I'm not going to kiss the grains like the stars of Gravity or The Life Of Pi. I'm not going to go home after production and soak my workaholic joints into bubbling water. Escape warm enough to turn back time and wrinkle the skin all at once.

On the other side of the bedroom door, you're ready to tear my soul like a pink slip in an economic recession. But you emerge, gentle to the touch. Confidence shines through your bone structure. I want to cradle it in my hands and steal some, if only to realign my insecurities. You whisper into the tense air and it settles around your face. Clarity comes to you at the strangest moments and I can see your brows rise while you think.

You tell me to fasten the flaws like a seatbelt, because I wouldn't be me without them.

The freckles on my nose remind you of a Dalmatian. I tell you the creator was painting me and his hands were possessed by his lack of satisfaction. They shook and muddy brown dots splattered my face. No one could scrub the mistake off the disaster, thus it was sent off for the war already flawed, waiting for more danger to come.

You insist I am wrong and that God was so pleased with me that goosebumps rose onto his soul and brown crescent moons delicately plummeted to my face. The masterpiece became so precious that green eyed jealousy came to be when I was born.

Wounded, I whisper that I fell pray to harsh ultraviolet rays. The sun snickered and muttered names under her glow. The freckles became a rebellious streak scar.

I wish I could let retreat into the pitch black nest of conformity. Looking the same never leaves anyone hurt.

Annabelle Edwards is a young writer living in New York. Her work has appeared in White Ash, Red Booth Review, and The Belleville Park Pages. She is the co-editor of Control Literary Magazine.