Shoelaces

      A child's shoe, scuffing the sidewalk, dusted with gray.

         The boy crouched down, clenching his stick of white chalk. The ground stained his clothes, and it had dirtied his new shoes. Soot lined his face, stinging his eyes and turning his skin a sick shade of pewter.

         The ground shook again. The chalk piece rolled from the boy's hand, clattering to the concrete. He dove down and pressed his body against the chalk universe that decorated the ground. Above him, the sky blazed with a red sunset. Below him, the world smeared against his shirt.

         People screamed. The boy clamped his hands over his ears, but they were too loud. Everywhere, shrieks and gurgles swelled, only to smother under the black blanket. It smelled, too; the blanket dripped with sulfur, gas, and some metallic scent that sent his stomach churning. He felt the blanket weigh down on him, wrapping tight and blocking his airway. The people must have been everywhere, by the sound, but to the boy they were invisible. The ground shook, and the screams rose in a dissident crescendo once more. His eyes stung, the noise pierced his ears with pain, and each inch of his tiny body ached from agony and confusion. Maybe he should be screaming too.

         He turned around, tears pouring down his cheeks, and choked out a scream. His mind blanked, save for one word, written upon it like chalk on slate.
         
         "Mom," he cried, "...Mom!"

         Why wasn't she there?

         "Mom!"

         Did she leave him?

         "Mom!"

         Had he done wrong?

         "Mom!"

         Did she not want him anymore?

         "...Mom?"

         Was he not good enough?

         He babbled out pleas to his mother, promising to be good, to be nicer, to pay more attention, to be good, to be whatever she wanted, just please, please, Mom.

         But the rubble kept silent.

         He sobbed, tears streaming down his young cheeks and staining like liquid scars. Trembling, the boy stood up. Maybe if he ran, maybe if he screamed louder, maybe, maybe, maybe...
         
         Suddenly, he felt a yank on his hand. He looked up into the face of an older woman, who snatched his arm and pulled him forward. Only blackness stretched visible before the boy, but still he ran with her. The smoke thickened as the two plunged further in, until the child felt it invade his nose and throat. He tasted charcoal, like burnt food from one of his family’s cookouts, but worse, as his tongue burned.

         He looked back. What if Mom was still there? Why was he leaving her? The cries caught in his throat, until he had to swallow the salty lump of tears. As he did so, he nearly choked. The woman still pulled, and he still ran. His eyes fell to the ground, only to see an untied shoelace.

         His mom told him never to run with untied shoelaces.

         He jerked away from the woman's grip, wrenching his hand free of hers, and she kept on running. Her screams faded as she continued to sprint onward. She didn’t look back, nor did he look forward. The boy bent down, picked up his laces, and began to sing.

         "Criss cross and go under the bridge. Now you got to pull it - "

         A child's shoe, lying on the sidewalk, crusted with black.