Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Celeste looked across the field of yellow and felt a kinship to each sunflower’s struggle for the sky. They wanted to live, she knew. And they wanted to be different. Like she did. She’d brought the gun with her and it weighed heavy in the left pocket of her blue windbreaker. The season had started to turn and after decades of wearing coats too heavy around this time of year and leaving them wherever she was whenever the weather warmed after being chilly, she finally got herself a light jacket. But she knew it had to look odd with the heavy pistol pulling the whole coat to the left and down where it bumped her thigh as she walked. Celeste wasn’t sure about her next move, so she looked for a sign among the late bloomers grabbing sunlight before her, their petals like long eyelashes spread wide and unable to hold back tears if they had any. She’d been holding back her own for too long. And the weight of her sadness was in her pocket, pulling her, guiding her to a space where she would finally stand out and be open for the sun to bathe her in a warmth it had previously denied. Celeste wanted to bleed, she’d decided. Blood was hot and had been trapped for too long inside of this boring, average excuse she’d been living. It was time to stand out. The gun felt lighter when it was in her hand. She wondered if the sunflowers would like the way she tasted as she pulled the trigger. The ones that did would be different like her.

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