The Most Beautiful Picture

If you walk down the hallway full of old pictures and paintings you will eventually see one beautiful picture at the end. The picture is large and made with a frame of silver. The detail is immaculate and there’s not a chip or scratch anywhere to be found. Whats more important is whats inside the frame. It seems to be a young girl. She looks sad. She seems to be almost in tears and the longer I stare at her the sadder she looks. I feel sad looking at her. The girl seems to  have great potential to be beautiful, but clearly let herself go. Her clothes seem nice, but her hair is unruly. Her make-up seems to be running from her tears which seem to be streaking down her cheeks now. Her sobs are heard down the hallway and she breaking down in front of me. As I stare at the picture more the sobs get louder and and more violent. She’s making me sad. She’s depressing to look at. What a disgraceful picture. I can hear footsteps coming down the hall under her sobs. The picture wiped her face. She cleared her tears, smiled, and I walked away. The picture was now only the reflection of myself walking away. I walk past a man who’s heading to the most beautiful picture. I hope it doesn’t make him sad. That girl was a mess in disguise.

Sometimes I Wonder

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Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be the kid who has nothing. I’ve imagined it to be something like this.

He walks home because riding the bus will take too long. He walks down the long dirt driveway to the old beat up shack he’s forced to call home. He kicks the beer can he finds all the way up to the house. He hears a short grumble as he opens the tattered screen door. There’s cans all across the living room floor and dad passed out in the armchair. He quietly sneaks into the kitchen to find something to eat. He opens the fridge to see two English muffins and an unopened six pack of Miller light. He takes out the English muffins and turns on the stove. Trying not to clank to much he grabs a pan and toasts the muffins. Reaching in the cupboard he grabs the small tin of honey. He scrapes enough from the inside to give the muffin some taste. Pushing the newspapers off the chair onto the floor he takes a seat and wolfs down the muffin. He hears a clank, and its his dad. He stumbles into the kitchen and grabs a beer from the fridge. He sees your homework on the table and snorts. He mumbles useless under his breath and fumbles into the bathroom. He knows its only a matter of time until he tells him to get a job and school is a waste of time. He’ll complain about bills and say the night shift isn’t enough. Every word he says will come out in a slur. So the boy will walk to his room and pull back the covers that haven’t been washed in years. He will lay down and cry himself to sleep. He knows that’s the only choice he has, because soon he will be in the cycle. Drinking every day before going to a manual labor job that can hardly pay the bills and keep food on the table.