Amy Sol

Keep Art Alive :: Art by Amy Sol

I know a girl from a lonely street,
cold as ice cream,
but still as sweet;
dry your eyes Sunday girl.”

And one day she just woke up
by me

Once upon a time there lived a girl who found herself in a huge and overwhelming world she wasn’t quite ready for. This girl lived by the ocean, and had lived her young life hiding in books, the school of her imagination, she liked to call it. She held many secrets and a past that she kept hidden deep inside her pale, nearly translucent skin. She walked about wearing a very thin veil of trust towards anyone who ever tried to peek beneath the surfaces of her quiet smile.

When she left her desert home and moved out into the city she told herself that she could change the person she had been, the girl of the silences that she remembered being since taking her first breath. She took a place across from a used clothing store run by an aging woman with dyed pink hair. The woman helped the girl try on many disguises, each one with its own story to tell, and the girl made herself a part of each one, wearing her new self out into the chaotic streets.

On Sundays she would slip into the late night dance halls. She would fill herself with multi-colored poisons that would temporarily mask the wounds she held still, deep inside. She fastened the mask on tight, the one that made her a bright and shiny new girl. She opened herself up to strangers. They offered up candy and liberties and the touch of skin on her icy skin, and more often than not, more pain.

The one day she met a boy who had painted his body with vibrant colors. He wore a pair of glitter soaked wings that hung a little too low on his back, his shoulders too think to carry the weight of flight. The boy was hiding behind his own costumed happiness, and he too was trying to evolve into something brighter, something different. The girl and the boy began a strange kind of friendship that seemed to transcend both the outer and inner selves they were on their own. One Sunday night an unexpected kiss awoke these two sleeping souls and they began an intricate dance of healing and distorted bliss.

The girl slowly opened up her boxes and trinkets, laying them out in front of the boy. He held each treasure gently, lifting them close to his ear, listening to each whispered tale they had to tell. He left tiny kisses all over them and very slowly the cracks began to cover over with pale pink color and streaks of sunlight. He brought to her his own tales, emptying out a threadbare bag of jewels at her feet. She took each one into her tiny hands, stringing them on to a silvery chain, turning them into something shiny and rare.

Too soon these healing children were separated by a paperback of truth and lies, and the ever-pressing dark of the outside world. They tried to fly back into each other’s secret realms occasionally, and when they could touch again they were always re-greeted by music, a cacophony of all their favorite songs. But, after a while, the melodies waned and began to lose their rhythm, their combined sound turning into that last gasp of battery life, the lag that will soon turn to nothing at all. The boy’s wings grew brittle and broke into pieces, and the girl took her trinkets and swallowed them whole, their jagged edges slicing up her insides as they slid down deep.

The boy went off to an unknown city, flying into the sky on borrowed feathers that spread out wider than his wings ever could. The girl tried to mend his abandoned wings and wear them herself, tying them on the way she remembered he once did, but they kept slipping off, falling into the street, turning dingy from the sewer water. She folded them up inside a silver lined blanket that the pink-haired woman sold to her before hanging up a “closed for the Winter” sign in the window. She tucked the wrapped up wings under the bed of her childhood home when she went to visit, leaving them back where dreams were once spun, and her own story and started long ago.

The girl’s life went on, taking strange twists and turns. Some of them were full of wonder and glory, others were plagued by ghosts and soul-splitting sorrows. She’d catch glimpses of the boy’s life in pictures and magazine pages, but they always came to her as blurry snapshots too hard to make out completely. She tried to forget the colors they had spun together, hand to hand, in that long before. She took hold of new brushes to paint herself a future with, wearing a silver band that wrapped itself tightly over a new revelation.

One rush hour day of the week morning the boy’s name came into her mind as she rode inside the crowded city train. She calls to him in a quiet voice full of trepidation. Just hearing his name whispered aloud from her quivering lips brought back the flush of a memory, she and he spinning in circles, dizzy and laughing, the feel of sand beneath bare feet. She felt the tickle of fins where her toes should be and heard the call of the ocean waves.

She rented a car that very afternoon and made the long trek back to the house of her beginnings. She shoved her aging body underneath her little girl bed of long ago and pulled out the silvery blanket. She unwrapped the set of wings that she’d sewn back together, still intact, albeit dusty and older like the world, and her eyes that now needed glasses to see clear. She carried them carefully out to the edge of the shore, sitting down with them open in her lap. She wonders how the boy will look when she gives them back. The girl asks herself if he will even remember his Sunday girl.

Sunday Girl :: Blondie

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