Lysander

            Enters a small uniformed. Brown haired boy, with his head held low. “Lysander!” “Lysander!” “It’s the loner Lysander!” All the children shouted. Dashing passed dozens of gaping mouths his stomach twisted. Desperately caged, he sought liberation. Old rusty fence. Within its dilapidated, archaic links he saw his savior. A small hole that led to the land of Canaan. The boy took off. Feet pounding the asphalt, with every running step, the small boy knew time was not on his side. His haste was such that the yellow parking boundary lines, the voices of hate, and the colossal brick building in his peripherals culminated into one amorphous blur. Eyes trained on the portal to his freedom, the small boy ran to the point of exhaustion. The black top, coupled with the overpowering beat of the summer sun, nearly roasted him alive. Gasping for just one breath of air, the boy had reached his destination with impeccable timing. Lurching forward he out stretched his arms and with a clumsy diving motion, caught his left leg on an old rusty link. The tear of his pants was all that was heard, for the boy did not give up a single syllable in response to his ill-fated attempt. Jostling free the boy limped into the forest. The cool breeze caressed his hair. The lush vegetation welcomed him. The trees swayed in his favor and the sun left him alone, he had found peace and tranquility.  For within the forest, the mouth of river could not flow with hate, the sun could not roast and the rusty fence could not cut. “What lies in this foreign land? The boy inquired as his eyes ran over the portrait of the undiscovered.