The Twenty-fifth Crayon This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

By
More by this author
My foot began tapping at its own accord, lightly and with much aggravation; a small, suppressed tapping. It was a meager attempt at basking in the slightest motion of the only part of my body not suctioned to the overly-excited people surrounding me.

I was the 25th crayon lazily crammed into a box of 24, as the cardboard bindings tried undyingly to accommodate the intrusion. The shear heat of the situation unbearably dribbled the waxy outer surfaces together into a gaudy, unflattering mesh of earth tones and chromes and the occasional flashy flake.

Espresso to my left was enthralled in a heartfelt discussion about the triviality of school, education in general really, and any days falling between Sunday and Saturday. I listened with a critical ear and attempted to construct a debate regarding matters of consequence but quickly realized there is only so much to be done about a boy who matches a faded brown shirt with orange cutoffs.

To my right I pleaded for a more stimulating conversation to weasel my way into as my legs were going numb the longer I focused my attention on them and I could feel my exterior melting and molding in this makeshift Crayola Crayon Maker. Charcoal and Pesto- or was that more of a Forest green- either way it was not her color and their conversation about nail polish was not exactly the riveting entertainment I’d hoped for. Nevertheless, it was apparent their brains were simply stubbed by the restricting waistbands of their shorts gracefully tucked just below their ears.

A speaker let out a sickening screech and everyone fell silent, momentarily, aside from the lone squeal of a fan girl in her natural habitat. As people began to realize the weak capacity of their lungs they opted to breathe again and resumed their conversations, keeping a tentative eye on the gaudy red velvet curtain.

Just then a thump to my temple sent my focus to the giant Peach behind me. I narrowed my eyes and waited for an apology but obviously the excitement that caused this incident was far too important to step away from. Everything but my ear shifted focus back to the front as curiosity led me to believe I had found a conversation worth inviting myself into.

Apparently the almighty Peach had touched the foot of a low-key vocalist as he surfed the crowd during a recent show. Next time go for the leg. Feet are atrocious; do not take pride in touching them, Peach.

Mine continued to tap.

As if to save the chorus of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” from further shame, the speakers cut to silence, followed by the crowd of teenagers rejected from American Idol. The curtain meticulously rose in sync with the screaming crowd.

I sucked in what I knew would be my last easy breath of the night and hoped Espresso wasn’t a jumper and that Charcoal and Pesto were deemed immobile in their hip, bodysuit shorts and that Peach had great balance and didn’t plan on thumping my head for the rest of the night.

Lights sliced through the blackness in front of us and the stage came to life, one shadowy piece at a time. My foot had stopped tapping to compensate for my heart which was beating in sync with the chants swirling around my head.

Then he took the stage. The room illuminated. Jesse looked out on this eye sore of colors and to him it seemed right.

Any day between Sunday and Saturday didn’t matter and all the little fingers with their primped and polish nails filled the empty spaces above our head and I still really, really hated feet. It seemed right.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback