Michael

By David Raygoza

Orange autumn leaves trickle down to the ground as Michael watches from inside. Sitting in a
classroom with 20 other children he never talks to, while a teacher lectures about a subject he
doesn’t care for. The leaves are far more interesting. Each leaf plucks itself from the tree
effortlessly. Dancing a tango with the wind before finally settling on the grass. Tens of leaves all
together, each of them the color of a sunset, all of them dead.
Michael grabs a pair of scissors from his bag and opens them up. Holding them by the middle,
he places the tip of a blade onto his perfectly smooth auburn desk. Applying just a bit of
pressure, dragging it towards him, away from him, and to the sides, he outlines the tree. The
majestic tree with its thick branches and strong trunk. But then he slides his arm over to the left
of the tree and adds the main player. The defiant leaves leaving the tree. Small but plentiful, they
float away from the huge and lonely.
“Simon!”
Michael, startled, looks up from his desk to see the teacher motion to him with his finger. His
classmates are silent and staring. Standing up, Michael makes his way to the front of the class
where the teacher asks him:
“You wouldn’t want me to send you to the office, would you Simon?”
The teacher towers above Michael, and everything about him is intimidating. His tone of voice,
the expression on his face, the crisp suit with not a speck of lint on it.
“Then why are you defacing school property, Simon?”
They glare at each other as the other students squirm in their seat uncomfortably. Looking
around at each other, their looks ask “Why won’t Michael apologize?”
“Answer me, Simon.”
Michael holds his gaze.
“Answer me, now.”
He refuses to budge and the teacher’s face reddens. Like an angry volcano, he explodes.
“SIMON! YOU WILL ANSWER ME!”
Suddenly, there is a knock at the door. An administrator with a much scarier look, gestures to
the teacher. The teacher lets out a breath and tries to compose himself.
“I’ll be right back, class”
He goes out into the hallway and the door closes behind him. Instantaneously the class bursts
out into gossip. Every student leaning over their desk to whisper to another. Michael stands by
himself at the front of the class, quieter than ever.
 The door clicks open. “Simon,” says the teacher in an all new inflection “please go down with
Mr. Vichy to see the Principal.”
Although the teacher now speaks in a controlled, almost defeated, tone of voice, the whole
room takes this in. From there on, a vacuum of silence surrounds Michael. Only his steps and
staggered breaths sound throughout the halls. Those terrible, terrifying steps. Mr. Vichy walks
along side him but makes no attempt at conversation or acknowledgement, even. Making their
way from one end of the school to another they pass clumps of kids and the occasional adult.
They make Michael uneasy with their hushed conversations and wandering eyes.
Finally they arrive at the door every student fears they will have to pass. Mr. Vichy turns the
doorknob and holds it open, nodding to Michael as if things will be fine. Taking a deep breath,
he steps in.
The principal sits behind a grand desk, his hands folded and his eyes weary with age. He
extends an arm out, offering Michael a seat.
“Do you enjoy Nature, Simon?” He asks when Michael sits. “The way it leads itself, unrestrained
and never reserved? A thunderstorm when it’s angry but a quiet night when it’s tired.”
Michael can’t look him in the eyes, so he just examines the desk. The clutter of paperwork,
binders and spirals.
“See, Simon, nature expresses itself without regard to others. I think you admire that. I also,
admire that. So promise me something, Simon.” A jolting shift in tone catches Michael by
surprise “Promise me that no matter what I tell you now, you won’t change. No matter what I tell
you now and no matter what will happen after today.”
Michael has looked up now, unsure of how to take this. The principal takes a breath, and now
it’s him examining the desk nervously. “Simon,” he continues “this morning your mother was
murdered. No one has found your father yet, but the authorities expect he’s fled The State.”
This hits him like a punch to the stomach. His eyes water and his guts churn.
“Be strong, Simon. A car will be here shortly to take you to your Aunt and Uncle. They will
care for you from now on. I’m afraid that without your father’s payments, you won’t be able to
continue your education here. If there’s anyone you wish to say goodbye to, now is the time.”
The principal stands and offers a handshake to Michael. “I wish you the best of luck, Simon.”
A handshake and a pat on the back. That is all he gets before leaving the school. Outside the
dead leaves crunch under his shoes and he loses the strength in his knees. Falling to the ground
underneath the healthy tree, he clutches the grass and screams. Michael L. Simon is 7 years old.
 *2*

The rickety train bumps along the tracks jostling food every which way, whilst Michael tries
his hardest to drink hot chocolate. Outside thick layers of ice coat the landscape.

“Can you believe it!” shouts his uncle Julius from the other side of the table “Twenty years and
Lawrence Mediki hasn’t changed a bit” Hunched over and tapping on a silver touchscreen Julius
flips through pictures of the latest Royal Ball.

“Uncle, you do understand that he gets surgery like every two seconds, right?” says Michael
while his cup cools.

“Do I understand? Michael, if it were up to me, I would join the man!” replies Julius with a
hearty laugh. “Who wouldn’t want to look like that?”

Tracing the snowflakes on his window Michael sighs “Maybe I’m the only one, Uncle, but I
prefer a naturally good looking man. Not one fabricated by chemicals and doctors.”

Julius only gives a grunt. Greasy black hair, an untidy beard, and an outstanding belly, it was
hard to picture him as the fit young sculptor he used to be. Michael assumes it’s his turn now. At
14, he already sculpts faster than most artisans in the State, and he’s not ashamed to admit that
all the work has given him muscle. Actually, he’s very proud of it.

Sipping the hot chocolate and watching the world pass by; he can hear the ticking of the clocks.
Seconds, minutes, hours, and finally they’ve made it back to Arezzo. Julius walks by the stable
to the left, grazing a kind hand along the horses that peek out as he makes his way to the house.
Instead, Michael takes the trail off to the right, towards his favorite spot in the all of the State.

Along the trail, light barely makes its way through. Squeezing in between the numerous trees
wherever it can, and in a few lucky spots it even reaches the rocky ground to brighten up patches
of dirt and grass. Birds silently hop from branch to branch and watch each other inquisitively,
cocking their heads from side to side. Like a road into a cul-de-sac, the trail dissolves into a huge
open area encircled by trees.

Here, Michael had found huge stones. Round, square, smooth, coarse, long, tall, short, so many
of them in so many sizes. Over the past 4 years he had used this area to hone his abilities. A
hammer, a chisel, and massive stones to work with. It was a gift from God. He never once
questioned why they were there, or how no one had found them. All he knew was that he was
grateful.
 Now that he’s back, he glides his fingers around the smooth surface of his figures. A turtle up to
his knees, gazes up at him. This was his first, sculpted at only age 11. Tracing the shell and
petting his head. Next to the turtle he had tried to sculpt a portrait of his Aunt. What came out
though, was something more marvelous. The top of her head was too round when he began, so
he tried to balance it out by making the sides equally round but a bit sharper, as if leading into a
chin. This resulted in what looked less like a face, and more like a banana. Michael then
punctured a huge whole across the top half, leaving little indentions here and there. The final
product looks like a boat without a mast, wherein the crew is having a huge party. It makes him
smile.

Yet, he was still disappointed, and so in various other rocks he tried again and again to create a
human likeness. One for the baker, one for the mayor, another for the mayor’s gorgeous
daughter, and a fourth of himself. That last one is the only one he decided not to keep. He split
the rock in two and keeps the pieces off to the side, because you never know when they might
come in handy. The baker, mayor, and mayor’s daughter, ones all still stand though. Each one
progressively improving. In fact, he almost prefers his sculpture of the mayor’s daughter to the
real thing, because at least his sculpture doesn’t look at him as if he’s an urchin.

Michael makes his way back and in the kitchen hugs his Aunt.

“Did you have a good time at the capital?” she asks him with a smile.

“They have no taste” remarks Michael, as he grabs a loaf of bread “Julius sold Saturn for a
mere five thousand, when any man could see it was a work worthy of at least twenty.”

She rubs his shoulder and reassures him “One of these days, the people will develop taste and it
is you they will be buying from”

He laughs and squeezes her hand “You should get some rest, Claudia, you look tired.”

“Oh, trust me, sweetheart, I know I should. But then who will buy groceries to feed Julius?”

With a kiss on the cheek, Michael tells her “No worries, you sleep, I’ll go to the market.”

So like that, he goes on his way to get reacquainted with Azerro.

 **3**

The marketplace hasn’t changed one bit. Not that he expected it to, but it’s almost as if
everyone still stands in the same spot they did when he left. The shops are all busy with patrons,
young and old, buying and chatting without a care in the world. All the little kids run through the
fountain, getting their pants wet while their mothers absent-mindedly pick out fruits and
vegetables from persuasive vendors. The men stand near the blacksmith, talking about the
newest trade as he uses his laser to serrate their tools. The ones who aren’t outside are inside in
the tavern, drinking and watching the Telescreen while men in armor throw a ball around and
injure themselves. Michael doesn’t understand any of it.

Crowds make him uncomfortable, and they always have. Most townspeople know this about
him, so they rarely ever ask him anything. Michael just passes by and grabs what he needs,
handing them money and not staying for the change. Pacing through the various aisles of bread
that have been laid out, he suddenly can’t see a thing, and he feels fingers stretch across his face.

“Guess who!” chimes a brilliantly high-pitched voice.

“Lowette.” Answers Michael, unamused.

As she removes her hands from his face her perfume attacks his nose, like a piercing flower.
She is dressed in a bright blue dress with a bright blue bow and bright blue shoes. Little bits of
snow cling to her leggings.

“I saw you on the artist channel!” She boasts, a huge smile on her face

Michael continues grabbing food and putting it in his bag, paying little attention to Lowette “Oh
yeah?” He says.

“Yes! And the commentors had great things to say about your sculptures!”

Today is just full of surprises.

“Those were my Uncle’s.” he says

“That’s what I told my father.” Replies Lowette, stretching out the last “r” so that it goes on for
eternity “But then he said,” she continues, lowering her voice as if to imitate her father “Julius is
very talented indeed, but I have never seen work that captures the bodily so eloquently, it must
be Michael’s, Julius always did prefer astronomy to anatomy.”

Although Michael has finished gathering groceries, he stops a while and examines Lowette.

“How peculiar.”

“You can’t find it that surprising!” squeaks Lowette “You must have known you were good!”
“No, I mean, how peculiar that you’ve taken a sudden interest in me, and also that you were
watching the artist channel to begin with.”