Bio: Laura Saint Martin writes mystery novels set in the foothills of Southern California, featuring horses and their eccentric owners. She also writes poetry about life on the autism spectrum and blue collar struggles. She works at Patton State Hospital and for Rover.com.
Austen
Delacroix walks a known path, easy as an old shoe, but ripe with surprise. He
is a handsome teen, his Navajo heritage lending a look of maturity and
thoughtfulness. And he is thoughtful,
a quiet young man with a strong moral compass instilled by his single mother.
More
introspective than usual, he is eager to rid himself of his boisterous,
uninformed classmates and enjoy the tranquility of his home in the foothills,
eager to get away from the “hurt lockers,” with their wilted floral offerings
and inspiration porn, pictures, stuffed toys, balloons, away from the
gruesomely embellished retelling of suicide attempts and successes.
He
walks through a neighborhood of winding tree-lined streets and custom-built
homes to a short cul-de-sac, and a road whose paving is little more than a
memory. The road intersects large open pastures with ramshackle outbuildings.
Horses graze in those pastures, or are tied up by a large barn in questionable
repair. A couple of women groom and fuss over the animals, and Austen knows
more will be arriving, including school girls.
Austen
slips around the back of the barn, cutting through a small pen. He stops to
stroke the tall black horse housed there, his mother's horse. The horse is
named Two Socks, for the neat anklets of white on his rear legs.
The
barn is cool and dark, the smell of hay sweet. He climbs a small ladder into
the hay loft. On one side, his mother's paintings, under old bedsheets, await
her loving ministrations. At the other end, Austen has his work area, his beads
and crystals and thread protected in large plastic boxes from the ubiquitous
dust.
The
cube-shaped beads were an impulsive purchase, pretty, but thus far proving
useless. Too large, too modern. He considers a flat Nbedele herringbone weave,
a simplified South African pattern. The geometry lends itself well to the
weave, but the silver-lined beads need color. He looks through his Swarovski
crystals and selects bicones of various sizes in a deep red called “Siam,” and
inserts them in between the vertical rows of stitches. He works as the sun
slips behind the hill next to his house, pauses to look out the window. He
thinks about death, and life, about friendship and loyalty.
He
turns on a small light and continues his work, glad to give his mother time to
rest. She works long hours, works all night, and doesn’t need him in her hair
all the time. There are snacks in the barn, bottled water, some cigarettes
stashed away. But hunger and addictions can’t distract him. He is creating
beauty. Creating beauty in the midst of ugly.
Zo├л
Seifert isn’t a close friend, but Austen likes her well enough, a nice girl, a
girl with baggage. A girl from a broken home, like Austen, a girl who enjoys
self-medication on occasion, like Austen.
A
girl who shouldn’t want to kill herself. Her attempt was not successful, but
ugly nonetheless, her final frontier patched and preempted under leather
restraints.
Although
he isn’t one to cut himself or talk about suicide, Austen understands how
easily one could self-destruct. His mother has scars from self-injury, and from
the abuse of others.
Austen
was the one who found him, his father’s head like a plate of spaghetti thrown
at the wall. Austen was four years old at the time.
He
finishes the piece, a bracelet, admires the intense glitter of the crystals.
The Swarovski pokes out of the herringbone stitches like blood oozing from open
wounds. He puts it around his own wrist, likes how it looks like razor cuts.
Austen
sews the bracelet to a clasp and puts it in a small plastic bag. He climbs down
the ladder, finds an unclaimed cigarette and joins the big black horse for an
understated sunset.
The
horse nuzzles Austen’s long hair as he smokes. Two Socks is a beautiful animal,
shiny even in the muted sunlight. Beautiful, mischievous, loyal.
The sun lounges on a bank of maybe, and Austen exhales a stream of hope.
Laura St. Martin's vivid writing and poetry illuminates substantive characters facing life's crucibles. Within three sentences, she captures the essence of humanness, and I can't help but laugh or gasp at how real the personification feels. As a member of her weekly writing group, I am always in awe when she reads. TT
ReplyDeleteStunningly emotional and beautifully written. Well done, Laura
ReplyDeleteYour piece reminds me that I have so much to be grateful for. Each day is an opportunity to appreciate the beauty around me, around my house, around my neighborhood, within my community. Austen is powerful. He creates beauty and is compassionate. I hope his example enlivens Zoe.
ReplyDelete