SUBMISSIONS

Submissions are accepted on a regular basis, year-round.
Can include, short stories, essays, poetry and prose.
Must not exceed 3,000 words.
Must be written by a current ESA student, or alumni.
Submissions are accepted: e.s.say.says@gmail.com

Tuesday 29 May 2018

Get Me Out of Here

Get me out of here by Sophia Bannon

Left foot. Right foot. Out of the of building with the blankets that smell of mildew and despair. Past the men with the big black boxes that make you hurt all over. Your feet walk faster as they turn and stare at you, even your feet know it is not good to be stared at long.
You are walking faster now. Running with frantic haste, tripping over rocks and crushing the grass, apologizing to them as you go.

You reach the beach. Sand, gritty and rough under your toes. Sharp rocks and slivers of wood, reaching out to you, wanting a taste of your flesh. They won’t get it.

You jump, spin and twirl, arms outstretched, breathing in the briny air. In front of you is the sea, waves crashing over each other, fighting to dominate, to survive.

Some of salty spray escapes onto your face. You lick the it off. Wind rushes over you. The sea reminds you of another sea, a different day.

The sea had decided to dance. The waves leaping in frenzy, sometimes coming on deck, asking you to join.

You were on the metal monster as it groaned and creaked, spewing forth thick, choking smoke.

You remember Mama pleading for you to come into the belly of the monster when the waves danced.

“Why do we have to go?” You asked Mama.
“It’s for a better life,” Mama responded.

Mama told you that they were leaving because of the war, that this new country would take them in. Mama said it would be hard.  Mama said that people in the new country didn’t like people like you. Different. Autistic.

Mama had said that they were refugees. Mama thought nothing could go wrong, that being a refugee wasn’t something bad.

But Mama’s gone. They took her. The people who called you retarded, the ones who called Mama dirty immigrant, they took everyone.
Everyone except for you.
That day you pressed your face into the canvas of the infirmary, the smell of urine and slowly dying flesh surrounding you. Though you felt the tears running down your face and you could hear the anguished protests of your family, the canvas yielded no comfort, it’s rough fabric unforgiving.


The dismal rain falls upon sweet prairie grass. You hear them coming. They will take you back to the place of prodding, cold that will creep into your aching bones.

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