brown eyed girl

The glint of sunlight on steel flashed in my eyes as I watched my life fall apart. Trapped by the police officer’s strong arms, I continued to thrash forward as if I could get away. The screams of horror echoing from my breast blended across the sky with those of agony coming from the wreckage in front of me. Crash, metal on metal. That was it. Everything I had ever loved burned in front of my glossy brown eyes.
“Standing in the sunlight laughing, hiding behind a rainbow's wall, slipping and sliding all along the water fall, with you. My brown eyed girl, you’re my brown eyed girl.”
The memory of my father’s voice broke through the wreckage, singing our song. My mother laughing and telling him, “Maybe you should leave the singing to Van Morrison darling.” I never cared how tone deaf he was, how awful his dancing was. When my song rang through his vocal cords there was no better sound in the entire world. My body went limp as the reminiscence faded.
With my elbow to his gut, the officer collapsed, letting me free. The sprint to the 1984 Ford was the longest trip I had ever traveled. Glass shards penetrated my knees and elbows as I scrambled desperately to reach my parents. I heard nothing. Heat from the burning semi engulfed my body, and if I hadn’t been so numb, it might have hurt.
“Ma’am? Ma’am? Please get away from the car, the gas tank could explode anytime now. You NEED to get away from the cars!” I ignored the police man’s voice.
“Sha la la la...laa la l…” I heard my father’s faint voice singing and hot tears burned my face instantaneously.
“Elliott? Damnit, I lost her.” The cop gave up.
Grabbing the bloody blackened hand in front of me; my breath quickened, my heart rate sped, and my heart ached. There was no life in the passenger’s seat. Her beautiful face stared at me, empty, as if waiting for something. I knew what the crystal blue eyes waited for, my father. The hand I held. The last bit of my world was being held together by two tender palms. I no longer knew where my mother was, yet deep in my soul I knew I could reach her. Praying with all of my being I pleaded,
“Please don’t take him with you, wait for him. I need him. You can have him for eternity, mom please, leave him with me.”
I felt a firm squeeze on my hand that sent goose bumps up my spine. I looked into my father’s eyes and they smiled at me through the tears.
“She wants you to know she loves you little darling,” my grip tightened on his hand “she loves you more than anything, but I have to go with her. It is not in our hands.”
Nodding once, I kissed the strong hands I’d always known. I wanted to scream, tell him no, he couldn’t go. Before I could reconsider my understanding, his cracked voice came through his weak mouth;
“Hey where did we go, days when the rains came down in the hollow, playin' a new game, laughing and a running hey, hey skipping and a jumping in the misty morning fog with our hearts a thumpin' and you, my brown eyed girl…”
“No dad, no, finish the song. Please, you have to finish.” My own voice sounded frail in my throat.
And as I looked into his eyes, the exact eyes I saw in my mirror every morning, the light went out. I knew at that point, I had to finish my song on my own.
An intense whoosh blew my long hair into my face, this heat far hotter than that in which I’d been sitting. I didn’t care. I wanted to sit there and burn to ashes with my parents and our upside down car. But the hellacious police officer would not let that happen. My hand was ripped from my father’s, yet I no longer cared. I closed my eyes. My father’s eyes.
I had always wished for my mother’s beautiful baby blues, sat for hours in front of a mirror blinking over and over again, hoping that one time when I opened them I would see her ice blue masterpieces in my own reflection. If I had blue eyes, I would be beautiful like her. A tall lean goddess with the modesty of a saint, gone. When I opened them again I saw my mother’s beauty in my own reflection, only this time, with brown eyes.
“You’re my, brown eyed girl.”

The young woman’s body went numb and lifeless in my hands. I had expected her to fight, to pull away or sock me a good one like she had done in our earlier meeting. But she didn’t. I coddled her against the explosion I heard coming. Like every wreck, I instead wanted to coddle the poor thing from what was to come. Hours of questions, figuring out where she could continue her life, and the grief no person should have to deal with. Ten years on this force, I’ve seen my fair share of accidents. But never have I seen a child run to watch her parents die. Cops aren’t heartless, and death doesn’t get easier to watch, but victims all blend together after a night’s sleep. Something in my spirit told me this situation was different. I learned her name was Elliott Belles, and she had only been waiting for her parents outside the library for a few minutes. Ironic, Belles was my middle name and I had never understood why my birth parents would do such a thing to a boy.
After the initial blast, I scooped the girl up from our crouching position and ran to a safe distance. I tried to put her down but her grip around me did not loosen. Strange, just a few minutes before she was running from the safety of my grasp, straight into an automobile accident set to blow at any minute. I held her against my rigid bulletproof vest until her crying stopped.
She insisted on sitting in the front of my squad car on the way back to the station. I did not bother her with talking, but rather turned on the radio to an easy listening station and drove.
After questioning her as a witness to the accident, which I find a ridiculous practice, I offered a ride to a relative’s house.

“I don’t have any relatives.”
“None at all? Do you have somewhere to go?”

Every question that followed only sparked anger and tears, so I talked to the captain and brought the girl home with me. There wasn’t much speaking, but over breakfast the next morning I explained to her all of the options. Being seventeen she could live on her own if that is what she wanted, if needed however, foster care could be provided.
“Will you help me with something?” Her shaking voice piped in, clearly not listening to anything I had been saying. I told her I could help her with anything she needed.
“My parents left me this letter, it was with their will. The other cops had to read it to see if I had any relatives I did not know about. I can’t bear to read it; do you think you could read it to me?”
I would have rather done anything than said no to the pleading brown eyes that looked into my own. Something about her eyes seemed comfortable and familiar, almost like home.
“Of course,
Our Darling brown eyed girl,
We hope with all of our hearts you are reading this long after we are writing it, yet we know life can be unexpected. We love you very much; you are the absolute center of our universe. Know forever, that we will wait for you.
However, until your journey on Earth is through, we need you to know you are not alone. At the bottom of this letter is a name, your brother. Every day the two of us pray for him, and with little success have we found information on his whereabouts. If you so desire, find him, and deliver the message that we never meant to lose him. After he was lost, we searched high and low for our first born, but the school claimed to have no records of him, or the other boys on the trip. The details are not important, any how we do not have many. What we hope from this letter is for you to continue the search we have so far failed. If you shall find him, bring him the joy we know you have brought us.
Forever yours,
Mother, and Father.

Carson Belles"

Confusion hit my body like a tidal wave as I heard the name uttered in awe by the police officer. I looked into his crystal icy blue eyes, and then let my gaze drop to the shining star pinned on his uniform. “Carson Belles Smith, Toronto Police.” My dark brown eyes reflected back at me behind the name.

Famous for Steakburgers.

Lately I have been attempting to change myself. Not completely, but in small ways.

I want to be a more beautiful person.

To me there is a large difference between pretty and beautiful. Anyone can change their appearance, I'm changing my soul. Not to say there is anything wrong with my inside, but everyone has personality flaws and plenty of room for improvement. I aim to eliminate as many as I can. The catch is, I'm molding myself to my own standards of beautiful. Many changes people won't notice and I am happy with that.

I am writing this post in Steak 'n Shake. Table forty-one, party of one, seat number one. If you have not yet caught on, I am dining alone. I've decided eating alone is something all beautiful people should do, and often. Keep in mind my definition of beautiful. Solo dining is not glamorous or mysterious. Unlike an indie movie or a late night teen drama, no ruggedly handsome dark eyed stranger has come my way. Stefani, my waitress seems to hover however. Almost in pity for the young girl, party of one...seat one. Usually a person of her position would bother me, but her greetings and "are you still doing okays?" seem genuine so with her every visit to the table I smile warmly and nod.

When I sat down beneath the red neon signs at the small table meant for two I felt strange. After all I had never done this before. But as I watch the crowd I begin to feel like a part of the harsh and cliche red, black, and white scenery.

I wonder what the guests of the Comfort Suites next door are doing and what brings them to town. I wonder if the tall bald manager will ask me to kindly end my loitering, I have now been here for and hour and a half writing feverishly in a notebook and reading. Somewhere in the back of my mind an urgent yet ignored thought sounds off, finite class. The family beside me seems to be having a very intensely serious conversation that reaches my ears in broken bits. "Regardless, we have to deal with this situation, I'm serious."

The blue eyed man named Robert is the one whose "memories of it are still just pissing him off." I start to feel the conversation is far too personal for a lone stranger to eavesdrop on and change my activity to watching the dark birds contrast against the gray sky.

Stefani's shift is over, a less friendly worker takes her place. Robert is still hostile. A light-bearded man with a single bag enters the Comfort Suites. I feel my dining experience come to a close and gather my things. I am informed at the counter my milkshake will be full price because "you waited too long to check out, Happy Hour ended half an hour ago..." point taken from the grill boy in the paper hat. I waited too long.

I think I will eat alone more often.

Alix Michelle. SC.

"Love is the answer at least for most of the questions in my heart, like why are we here? And where do we go?And how come it's so hard? It's not always easy and sometimes life can be deceiving I'll tell you one thing, it's always better when we're together"

"Better Together"

Jack Johnson

I am most definitely not a photographer. My family has plenty of those and their talent far exceeds my own. They take pictures for a profession, beauty, and memories. I may not have the first two, but I love the last. The pictures I take are random and sometimes very silly. But out of all the things I could choose to take photographs of, my favorite is my sister Alix Michelle. Not only is she a constant form of entertainment for me, but a constant form of inspiration. Not many people can say their sister is their best friend and know deep down in their soul that it is true in every sense...I can. Sometimes she is moody, or even downright hateful. Often times I am furious for no reason, then euphoric the next. The recognition of one another's flaws brings about a silent understanding. We take the other person's faults in as they happen then allow them to be erased almost in the same instant.

Between the both of us we have dealt with a lot of hardships throughout our lives. With every new one of hers comes a new opening in my heart to take the pain, and store it inside myself until she is ready to face it again. People who love her other than myself may request that her packages of hurt be lifted from her and put onto them, but they do not know my heart and hers have had a storage contract since the very first time she consciously cried.

The reason I bring up my sister and pictures is that I recently discovered Alix is my favorite thing to capture. In every picture taken of myself (though I will always pick apart every flaw that can be found) I look generic. I flash the same smile I have given for years that I know will be positively viewed. I have practiced putting up a front to hide what lies beneath the "cheerleader smile" enough times to perfect it. Ali however, is vulnerable in her smiling. She does not know how stunningly beautiful she truly is. Every picture shows humility. I envy that. She begs me to edit the pictures in a way that hides her absolute raw self and changes her into the same generic person I achieve without the editing. I do it, but what she does not know is the extent to which I edit her photos. Maybe airbrushing a blemish, whitening a smile, or changing the color filter is as far as I will go. But these minor changes give her the confidence in her pictures I wish she would always carry with her. But then again, do I want her to lose the naivety, vulnerability, and pureness that she carries only for her modesty to be replaced by the vain, fake qualities so many people have? I do not know. The truth is, I would love her all the same either way.

"Sister, I hear you laugh, My heart fills full up. Keep me please. Sister, when you cry I feel your tears running down my face. Sister, sister, keep me. I hope you always know it’s true I would never make it through you could make the sun go dark just by walking away playing like we used to play like it would never go away I feel you beating in my chest, I’d be dead without."

"Sister"

Dave Matthews