The Phantom Inferno
Martine Bigos
Sweat-laden bricks stacked for assembly resided next to the boarded split levels that were cemented on the street. When joyous screams forged by youth rang throughout the neighborhood, cries followed in time. But within the havoc brought on by our actuality was my phantom haze, a being that granted me the chance to maneuver any truths I feared to confront. The forest. I used to draw a fine line between reality and any sense of reverie provided by the backwoods. Behind my house, a small shed blighted by decay accommodates rot snuggled between what’s left of paint-chipped wood paneling and a lichencovered roof. One bird feeder remains, stolen by squirrels and chipmunks. No food can be dispensed to robins and cardinals who loom near the maple in the springtime. My gaze was never set on any woodland creatures, and I failed to acknowledge the newborn robins nested in the holly shrub. Within the larger shed situated on the other side of the backyard, a figment of my childhood rests. I don’t know what we keep in there anymore, maybe open house signs and a multicolored trash can or two. The door never closes. Years ago I’d circle the shed, and proceed to stop in front of the door. I’d push as much as I could with my eyes shut. But the door would only remain jammed for two seconds. Not long after, it would creak open once more, and I’d run my cracked heels up the hills, making my way to the house through the raspberry bushes. Today when I rest on the hammock, I look into the shed to see if I can make out what lives inside, and when all I see is a pool of uncertainty, I gaze up at the sun to tire myself. When I’d sit in my dining room and observe the old estates beyond the forest, I only went on to peer into my overgrown garden that could not be cured by the power of my will, requiring the blessing of a phantom 49
