in parentheses

Lauren Kawamoto began writing when she was seven years old. To further her technique, she has attended several programs such as ATDP (Academic Talent Development Program) and BAWP (Bay Area Writing Project). She has additionally submitted to more than a dozen various writing contests and literary magazines, and been published three times.

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Rebirth with a Dandelion

A girl lies on her back in the middle of a street drained of wind and presence.

The gravel is gritty and tough, remnants of a long-ago paving project half completed, then abandoned when the going became too difficult in trying weather, but her gold-flecked eyes remain fixed on the azure expanse of the sky that broadens and stretches like a tarp across the world that is known and yet unknown.

The blue is dying slowly, strong, bold colors draining where the ceiling of the world meets the golden horizon and leaching into husky indigo. The stars will emerge soon, strewn like so many toys after a child’s ill-timed tantrum across a playroom floor, and only their light and the ivory glow of the moon will light the road she is sprawled across, patiently waiting for time and a single vehicle to encounter each other.

If only a breeze would come to scatter the lone pebbles littering the curb, she thinks, thoughts swirling murkily in the dark corners of her brain.

It would ease the pressure on her pounding head, and soothe the sour taste coating her dry, listless tongue, she thinks.

It would bring cool relief to the incessant, throbbing heat that permeates the street, no matter how small, she thinks.

But the thought that is foremost in her mind: Where is it?

Many believe in the afterlife. The inevitable, constant question: heaven or hell? Some choose to place their faith in eternity spent with no consciousness, no soul, and only a decaying body for company.

But she believes in the secrets of the beyond, where libraries are full of forbidden knowledge, like the apple from the tree. Where powerful things can lurk behind the screens of life and humanity. The makings of the universe’s heart. Mythological beings with gentle hands and wise, all-seeing eyes.

Why would anyone choose a smoking, disintegrating world on the verge of self-destruction over entering blissful, purposeful infinity?

All she needs is a speeding car.

Her eyelashes flutter against pale skin as she turns slightly on her side, laying a palm on the gritty road. It trembles with vibrations, a low, growling roar echoing down the street as if from some great beast emerging into the open, but she knows the truth. Finally.

It’s on its way.

Headlights flash as the road rumbles louder in response to the quickly approaching car. She lies back, eyes glossily reflecting the rapidly darkening sky above, cold sweat pricking the pores of her clammy skin, but before her hair can spill and catch onto the gravel beneath her, she sees something extraordinary in her peripheral vision.

Lemon yellow petals arch outward in a glorious display, a sunburst in the coming and deepening night. A bright green stalk digs its roots deep into the crumbling soil, leaves saw-toothed and as verdant as ferns. A black and gold striped bee hovers above the center of the flower, dusty with pollen, and rests its furry legs on the outer petals for a fleeting second, bending its head as if in prayer.

The car is speeding down the street, steadily getting closer, but she cannot take her eyes off of the flower. It is so vibrant, so powerful, so alive. All the good things in the world and none of the bad, unlike everything else in her life. At the sound of the dangerous vehicle, the bee jerks in surprise and flies off, wings beating up and down frantically as it buzzes into nothing. The flower looks forlorn now without the presence of another being.

I could roll, she thinks. Roll out of the way, touch that flower, and prove that I can wait a little longer to see what’s past this life.

Gravel stings her exposed ankles. The car is seconds away. Her release, the one that she’s been expecting for so long – it’s coming at last. Can she really find the strength to turn away and seek life again?

The girl reaches for the dandelion, fingers pale against the dark, the choice clear. I want to live.

A loud, brash, bold honk, and the flare of beaming white lights.

In one smooth motion, she plucks the flower from the dying lawn, rolls to her side against the sidewalk, and the car surges past without a second glance from the driver.

This is her rebirth.

I want to live.

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