I bang my head, and I’m back in a canvas tent. It’s dark, but I know that all of us are sunburnt. What would the sun think if we didn’t visit her every day? She hides from Alaska sometimes. Maybe she’d assume it’s like that. Around the tent, dry mouths crackle, forming quiet words. I packed the wrong shoes for sneaking to the bathroom. The tennies thump the floor with the heel pinned flat as if announcing that I bled through my fifth—and final—pair of pants. The whispers climb wobbly ropes. Then a laugh breaks free, and that’s the new volume to match. I wish to steal some of tomorrow and sew it onto tonight. Tomorrow is so long, would anyone notice? People must feel this way before they die. Our tent is shouting over to our neighbors. Then it’s silent. Someone ironed a patch over the sun. My eyes ram the hollowness, and the years lay on my chest. Surely this ends.
Maggie Maize studied writing at Savannah College of Art and Design. She is interested in capturing the oddity of life through child-like wonder. Her writing has appeared in Harness Magazine, Port City Review, Humana Obscura, and elsewhere.