Free The Sea-Wave by Rolli

wave, away. The Earth itself, is salt, and will wash away. In the wave. For it comes and goes, forever.”
    And there would be no more joy.

Sunburn

    M y hands are so burnt now they’re not hands. They’re tongues.
    I’ve never had a tan. There are gross old celebrities who resemble smoked fish because they think if they hide under a tan we won’t notice they’re three-quarters dead. I feel like one now.
    I need my sunglasses. I have a small hole in my one cornea from looking at the sun too much when I was younger. I remember once my auntie said to me: “What are you doing?” I was staring at the sun. “Don’t do that,” she said. I kept doing it. “Do you want to be blind too, kid?” she said, turning my wheelchair around. Later, I bit her thumb.
    I’m nervous. It’s the part of the movie where you know something big has to happen because there’s only ten minutes left.
    The trees are getting thicker.
    My red hands are burning and shaking.
    I almost wish I was home.

The Sun

    I like looking out the window, I liked to, in my room. There wasn’t much to see. But I still liked to.
    I saw my parents walking home. They didn’t see me. The looked heartbroken. Like plants that hadn’t been watered. I know they want to do the normal family stuff but most normal family places don’t have a wheelchair lift or the right accessories. When people ask them in a confidential voice how they’re doing they put on their smiles and then after peel them off like a sunburn.
    I guess I’m the sun.

One Rotund Tragedy

    M y life has been one rotund tragedy. It’s sad. There are so many things that can go right, but sometimes they all flop over like they smelled gas. My mom had maybe a kindergarten of miscarriages. They were all me’s that gave it their pathetic best but couldn’t quite make a go of it. And then I gave it my equally pathetic best but for some reason just barely made it. I sometimes wonder if my embryo had just smothered itself in egg yolk like the others if things would have turned out so much better for everyone. My parents would’ve bought a dog.
    David Copperfield is good but not so good that you’d sit in acid reading it.
    It’s almost that good.

Something

    H e sometimes makes these beast sounds. It’s this throat-whistling like a dog that’s struggling to get comfortable. I’d say he’s nervous or in pain. Maybe if you get nervous enough and hurt bad enough you lose it.
    This all makes sense to him, I guess. It means something. Hopefully it does because my own life has been meaningless. I haven’t been anything to anyone.
    But to the old man . . .
    It’s sad, but I guess I might be something.

Green Acres

    I could barely see it in the moonlight but I’m pretty sure the sign I scratched my arm against read: “GREEN ACRES.”
    Green Acres looked much more like a large, dark forest. When it comes to children entering forests, good things don’t generally happen.
    The second time I fell out of my chair, I hit my head on a tree trunk. I didn’t hit it that hard but . . . My brain is the only thing I have going for me. I wouldn’t mind, really, being a brain in a jar. As long as I could still read David Copperfield.
    I couldn’t see anything in the forest. All I could hear was the squealing of my wheels and the crunchy cereal things they were crushing. All I could think of was the birds and squirrels leaning out of their tree holes and staring. What they were probably thinking was “better her than us.”
    The old man slowed down a bit.
    He stopped.
    There was some kind of building just ahead. It had a doorway but no door. The old man pushed me through it.
    It was black inside. The old man wheeled me a few feet then turned me around so I faced the door hole.
    There was a clunk like he’d thrown down his walking stick. Then a crunch like he was lying down in