The Misguided Missiles of Paper Turkeys

Hannah stares at the Baptists marching in one by one, pale and whiskered faces, crowns of cowboy hats and blindness pouring from their souls, and as Hannah passes the plate, she spits in it, futility running from her mouth.

The Misguided Missiles of Paper Turkeys.

All The Unseen They See

Welcome the pilgrims with a pellet gun and a kiss.
Hannah cut her finger with a pair of scissors whilst she creates a paper turkey from a paper plate and construction paper the colors of autumn dust. See the missiles rain from the sky each tattooed with a patriotic emblem stating “Goodbye…”
Hannah pastes her paper turkey on her bedroom mirror animated and alive it wiggles its plastic eyes.
Hannah crawls beneath the covers on the eve of holiday glee, see her dream of firestorms and bullets and starving on TV. See the maestro carve the cooked bird, the steam from the flesh rises above the well-adorned table, leaves a mist on the lip prints stuck to the goblets of wine.
Hannah stares out the picture window as the chaos of family voices clutter her mind. She sees the soldiers all falling down in a line, gassed by children coughing up the poisons as they simply attempt to make paper turkeys with scissors and glue and not a clue from their forefathers how to breathe with peace.

Hannah stares at the Baptists marching in one by one, pale and whiskered faces, crowns of cowboy hats and blindness pouring from their souls, and as Hannah passes the plate, she spits in it, futility running from her mouth, the scent of heaven polished in her hair, she looks up at Christ and wonders if they’ll nail her up there.
Hannah crouches down low and slips out the row, whispers to her mom “I have to go to the bathroom …”
She breaks out the doors to greet the steely blue sky, the wind whipping curled leaves choking the streets, the semi-truck scatters them like a hurricane as it rumbles right on by, and Hannah walked on down the road. To the school where they teach the blind children. Such a huge, enormous house of sooted up brick and brawl, long luscious hills of grass rolling and rolling on down, paths of gray serpentine their way across the landscape and the clouds.
Hannah climbs over the black iron fence, rips her dress on a spike, tumbles to a patch of moss and rock.
She lifts herself up, wipes herself off, and comes face to face with a blind boy staring at nothing but dark empty space.
“Hello,” she says so politely. “My name is Hannah, and I just ran away from God.”
The little blind boy smiles at the sound of her voice. Reaches out his hands to touch her. Feels the fringes of her dress. The softness of her arm right where it comes out of her sleeve.
“I’m blind, but I can see you,” he says to her.
“I’m blind but I can feel you,” he mentions to her.
And he reaches out and kisses her wind-chapped hand.

The little blind boy took her down to the boiler room. He led the way by touch. It was dark and cold and smelled so old. Hannah crinkled her nose and coughed.
“What are we doing here?” she asked.
“Nothing … I’m blind. Just stay close to me.”
Hannah found a book tucked beneath a red blanket in the corner.
“What is this?” she asked as she stuck the stuff out in front of her.
“I don’t know, I can’t see… See…” and he felt around like a blind boy imitating a blind man lost in the confines of his own darkened theater.
“I’ll read to you,” Hannah said. And she led him close to the wall, beneath a slit of window against the ground.
And they sat side by side, their backs pressed against the stone of the wall. Hannah flipped pages and read the words aloud.
And with a final breath upon the final page, she read: The End. And the missiles came streaking across the sky making the end a sarcastic reality.

Hannah stared at the paper turkey pressed against her mirror. The dust was falling from her hair. The dried blood flaked from her mouth. Her once pretty dress torn worse and soiled now. She walked out into the hallway. Dimly lit and smoky. She turned the corner. Entered the dining room. Saw the pillars of stone bones propped in their chairs. Bony fingers clutching chipped goblets of blood. A hole in the window. Operating a view to the burning scene. The head of the blind boy spun like a record amongst the claws of the mangrove cathedrals floating through the world. She touched her mouth to feel her breath. The eye of the needle had been fed. She was alive, but the world was dead.

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