Alex's Slice of Life Challenge

His cat is the only one who really likes the fish. As his grandmother peers out the window at her two fishermen, she isn't thinking about the scales. The way they will pile up along the sharp blade of her knife and stick to the soft, mottled skin on the back of her hand. How she'll find them days, even weeks later on the underside of the counter's overhang-- shriveled, dry and crusty. And he, the little fisherman, has consciously blocked out the horrible things that will happen when he finally catches one. When he reels it in. When it hangs there on the hook before him. The way his stomach will churn and his hands will hesitate. How it will writhe, so alive in his grip, then struggle to find the water as he tears the hook from its mouth. Grandpa fisherman has forgotten that they will have to eat it eventually. That the smell will overpower the house and linger for days. That his teeth will pierce the chewy tough flesh and crush the tiny bones. That when he swall

He loves them. Surely, he loves them. He must. For why else would he work so hard every day? Long hours, twisting and pulling wires. His necked cranked skyward, his arms reaching into ceiling holes. He comes home tired, aching. This is love, isn't it? He sits in that chair at the end of the day and sometimes, often, he falls asleep. And sometimes, he laughs a deep belly laugh at something one of the children has done. This is the only outward, physical manifestation of emotion he ever shows. The only insight into that mind, that love...unless you count long, aching hours of work. But sometimes, he gives the same low laugh to something on the television and she has to wonder if really, truly, it is a sign of his love after all. He wears what she buys him, always slightly more disheveled and wrinkled than she imagined when selecting it from the store rack. She stopped ironing his shirts years ago and he hasn't seemed to notice. If he cares at all about these things, then he

Parts of her were so broken that they would never heal. And she wore these broken parts on the outside for all to see. Not like a badge of honor. Or a cry for help. But like an armor. A declaration that she couldn’t be hurt anymore. But she could be. Her heart was as soft as the flesh that hung from her hips and thighs, that pressed tight against the threads of her pants and rolled over the waistband. She hated that flesh. And she hated that she hated it, so she put it on display. Her confidence was just one of the lies she told. And everyone believed it. They told her she was beautiful, and they meant it. But she never believed it, never knew that her beauty came from those broken parts and that soft heart, never knew that even if she was caught in the lie, they would still love her. Love her more. She wrote songs that brought people to tears, and though she didn’t believe her own words, she sang them with a passion so honest that the truth they disguised cou

There was a time when he didn’t hide. A time when he sat in front of a crowd and performed for them. Now his only audience is the birds who are lucky enough to wander aimlessly by. Can they sense the dreams hidden in the notes he plays? He still plays the songs he wrote as a young man. Songs about love. And loss. Of hope. And wonder. Songs from a time he still believed that all would work out, still believed that chasing a dream was enough to catch it. Now, his dreams, like his songs, are only for the birds. Crushed under that weight of practicality. Of reality. His songs are an embarrassment. A symbol of his naivety and foolishness. He forgets that he once moved people to tears with the sound of his voice. That they rose to their feet when he finished. He doesn’t remember how beautiful it was. And now, only the birds know.

It's Friday and I've finished the many small, necessary duties of resetting the classroom for the week ahead. I take out my phone and open the AirMatters app to check the AQI--that's the Air Quality Index, an up-to-the-minute measurement of the harmful particles floating in the air outside. "220" pulsates on my phone's screen, white numbers in a purple box. When the score is red, it is unhealthy to be outside. When it's purple, well...that is even worse. Who decided that purple is more alarming than red? I wonder to myself as I take my gym bag from the closet. Looks like another indoor run today. A year ago, I had never heard of AQI and I certainly didn't know there was an app for that. A year ago, I lived in a place where no one even talked about the weather because it was almost always the same--hot. A year ago, I always ran outside. I press the power button on the treadmill and a swirl of red lights flash across the display. A few taps and the