Clara

     Deep breaths, pulse decreasing-- Clara crouched behind a bush, it's leaves camouflaging her in the black night. She peeks through the cracks of leaf and branch, squinting so as to make her vision somewhat more clear in the dankness of the forest. Crack. She quickly turns around and searches for the source of the subtle
sound. Crack! She begins to hear more clearly, and discovers the source from which the sound is emanating-- from behind a tree. Pulse quickening, short breaths-- she crouches further behind her bush in a fetal position. Awaiting the owner of the sound, she notices the dark figure appearing from behind the tree. At that moment, she felt as though her next plan of action was void, for she became unable to move from her position. She stared as the tall, cloaked figure approached her with one spidery finger pointing at her. Nearly a yard away from her, the figure outstretched it's hand as to take hold of her. In that moment she found clarity. Clara let out a cry so devastatingly shrill as the cloak creature exposed it's face. The grotesque thing cackled just as it--
     "Beep! Beep! Beep!" the alarm sounded continuously.
     Clara jumps up quickly and silences the alarm. Hyperventilating, she grabs her inhaler off the nightstand next to her bed. Within two deep spritz she regains her breath. She glances at the clock. 6:00 in the morning. The dawn is slowly leaving as the seconds pass by. Her room silent. The only clear sound is the sound of her heart, slowing its fast pace. Her blank expression matches her walls, and the pastel colors of her bed sheets faded to a light gray. Still groggy, she walks around the miscellaneous contents on her floor, nearly tripping on a pair of chucks. Walking to her bathroom she evaluates her features in the mirror; fair brown skin, matted mid-length, dark curly hair and, what was that?! A zit, smack dab on her chin. She shook her head at the blemish reflected in the glass canvas. Sometimes she wished that a painter would take that canvas and create a masterpiece. She hoped that the painter would take one look and notice her pimple and erase it forever, because a masterpiece should be blemish free. She moved on from her imperfection and focused on her eyes. Bags underneath, sleep inhabited, black eyes. She longed for the painter at this point, to erase every impurity in her life, to paint over the features that make her, as she saw, unattractive. The dark hair, dark eyes, and loaf of a being she made herself to be. She takes another long discerning look in the mirror and in place of her real self is the cackling creature. Her hair is black as night, her dark eyes black and frightening, the one zit multiplied into seemingly a thousand more, and her baggy eyes intensified so she looks as though she's lived 10 lifetimes. She moves her hand to her face only to see the spidery fingers feeling her grotesqueness. Oh how she prayed for that painter to come! She blinked once to find that the canvas returned to her once again. As much as she hoped and hungered for, the painter wouldn't come. Clara survives in consciousness, but is plagued in subconsciousness. A balance of the two could not be a reality, for her reality is both the day mares and the nightmares.
   

Sunrise

     She wore her favorite violet cardigan, grey sweat-pants and took her tea to the porch. The air was thin and cold, the wind blew invisible shards of ice. The landscape she called her backyard seemed desolate and empty. All there was was an orange tree, but this tree wasn't in bloom; the fruit was not present, the leaves were fallen, and all that was seen were the bare branches. Birds were not singing, in fact, none were in sight. The skies were dressed in cloud and fog and all that could be seen was five-feet in front. Still she nestled in her cushion as she did every morning and drank her tea, reading her favorite book, awaiting for the event that began her day.
     Layla shivered, and held close the hot tea in her hands as frost had left her lips. She glanced at the door, but tempted as she was she remained. She closed her eyes and imagined a different predicament than what she was in. The orange tree that stood in lonesome, naked in the freezing air, became a tree that was full of fruit and leaves were attached and green. A few birds were nestled in homemade nests, and they chirped a song so melodic and entrancing. The ground was abundant in grass and wildflowers and the skies were blue and the sun shined at its brightest. The air was warm and comfortable.
     She was quickly awakened from the daydream by a sharp wind that withheld a freezing sword, but her fantasy continued and she did best to ignore the door. Then her younger brother Isaiah appeared in the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, wearing his footsies and he said, "Layla, please come inside. It's foggy and f-f-f-freezing!" Layla smiled and turned to him and said, "But I don't want to miss the sunrise."
Isaiah then looked out to the landscape with a puzzled look on his face, seeing what was there, he said, "But there is no sun right now." Layla saw his confusion and replied, "Yes but there will be, just you wait." Layla went back into her daydream until--
"Don't you think it's silly to wait for it? I don't see anything.", he frowned.
Layla replied, "I know it'll come up."
"But how do you know?", he asked.
"Because it rises every day, even if you don't see it." Layla answered.

"Why do you want to watch it if it happens all the time then?", he asked.
Layla was stumped by this question, no one has ever asked her why. "I don't know really.", she replied. "I guess because it's reassuring that something so comforting and warm is always there. The sun brings life and fulfillment and watching it rise restores that in me." Layla saw the ever-present confused look on Isaiah's face. "Here, how about you watch it with me."
     He hesitated at the door and ran back inside. Layla frowned and she felt a weight on her chest and was disappointed. Her tea became cold and the wind became colder. Her heart's warmth left and she stared at the door. "What is the point?" ,she thought, "It's stupid to wait out in the cold--for nothing!". She stared at the landscape once more and only saw the deadened tree, the foggy sky. She only heard the cry of the wind and the songlessness of her yard. She sighed a deep sigh and began to walk to the door. Suddenly he appeared frantically, panting as though he had been running. He held a blanket in his hands. "I thought we were watching the sunrise?", he said. Layla smiled a great smile and replied, "And we are."
Isaiah then held up his blanket saying, "Good, because I brought my blankie so we could be warm. It's freezing out here!"
     Layla laughed and beckoned him over. As they nestled together, they watched as the fog cleared. The sky was in an arrangement of colors--red, orange, yellow, peeking over their horizon. Isaiah pointed in excitement at the event yelling, "Look! Look!" The sun was halfway risen, when the birds began to sing their song, the most beautiful song that Layla has ever heard from them. The ground was visible and she could see the dew on the grass, and though the tree was deadened by the cold, the sun behind it made it seem glorious. Together they watched the sunrise, sister and brother. Layla was filled with warmth once again and her faith was restored.