#faulknerian

Emilee is loud, so there is a struggle for me and Issak to share in what has been uncovered beneath the lawn's acreage.

 The acreage is an ugly sort of brown only what I could have felt was my favorite sort of ugly brown color that tinfoil gets when Issak has finished busywork around the family property, one that has flames lick the crinkly sheet until it has made Issak stop feeling about each day of labor. Issak binds me to the tree because what was discovered under the leaves was unrelated to this odd habit I see Issak go and do every time the sunlight drops from the horizon overhead, and then me and Issak are struggling for the indoor sunlight to keep us bright and early tomorrow. Emilee is so loud, she does not stop with the loudmouth moans and cries. It is no longer loud when we all share a crawlspace for us three as young kids who live and work on the land that our family has owned since we were decided to be the least valuable to live among the grown-ups, who likewise saw it good for us to live and sleep on the ground floor. In the crawlspace.

 There was four children, Issak once told me during one of our nights where the tinfoil would shoot through a straw, and all the feelings Issak would later swear were useless would dissolve out of his eyes. His eyes would close. He did not look ugly as the color that the leaves not too different from that favorite sort of brown I see on the tinfoil sheet on a regular basis. Issak was a know-it-all. Emilee was loud. Too loud for all the nights, us numbering a shared three in our ground floor living space.

 There was four children who lived above our heads, Issak sez, the fire in his voice the same fire the sunlight escapes with every single damn day. Emilee is louder than the light inside our space. Under the leaves, there is a discovery unrelated to my knowledge of my beloved Issak that has risen someone outside of our routinely uniform work model. Issak has not had time to inhale the properties of the common findings to separate the right way to talk about what me and Issak saw under the leaves after we are done raking this afternoon.

 Issak binds me with a wire that hurts but it feels correct that Issak does this because what if what I see hurts the family property? The dark of late autumn goes loud with Emilee. Not her voice. She is quieter than a cricket when it does not sing. Emilee is loud in her looks and actions. Emilee is louder than before. There is a problem with me seeing the same plain-as-day thing that Issak sees during this time of the day. It could be the year. Issak does not have time to explain, it looks to me. I focus not on Issak seethin' with the motion of his hands around my neck and my paunch, but on the happier feeling I see on the special sort of ugly brown color that is the leaves where outside the offensive thing for me to see so easy, I can think of the times when that color represents a favorite pastime that kept us carrying the sunlight busy until it was small enough to leave our ground floor crawlspace.

 The voice that Issak uses is the same feeling as the sand feels when that sunlight no longer is within our hands. It, Issak once told me in a calm breeze of phosphorescent smoke that fell from his eyes and nose, and did not even stay on the tip of his thin olive-skinned lip. There was no bottom or up when it was Issak speaking during the sunlight curfew. It was all one loud feeling that gave, Issak went on during the usual nights, for the four children unseen to keep the sunlight safe from us children who do labor and do not have any purpose other than to be loud, like Emilee I often felt was a point of common disturbance among our own space. Issak never mentioned Emilee except to create another loudness that often made her loudness a stillness of mouth.

 It was a usual part of our routine, and what arrived to me as Issak was no longer his normal self. I could not have a favorite sort of ugly brown, it felt bended and my arms were pent higher than my legs could ever stand upright alone against that nearby tree. Issak did not even speak. Issak, I felt without speaking, knew I had ugly touch when I started thinkin' about anything except using my hands, and following him without interruptin' the same order for the sunlight to keep bouncy enough. It would bounce so much when we did not look at it during midday that when we was done, it would bounce off the horizon and into the care of the children who lived, unseen, above us. Then we danced in the ground floor, loud and ugly until Issak spoke at once from the tinfoil when it spoke from the ugly brown sheet shriveled up like a turd when one of us went to use the corner inside our space.

 Turds turn greyer than any sky I ever saw except now it is not just grey but there feels like there is no tomorrow because Issak is teaching me what ugly means when Emilee is no longer loud in our space: She bounces up from the leaves. She is now with the sunlight and the four children who know how ugly we all must look from the cozy dark of the porch. 

The sign above our ground floor space is loud but not as loud as Emilee when she bounces up into the sunlight.

 There is no more speakin' for me and Issak. Issak no longer is kind. Issak is louder than everything I have ever heard or seen. It is because I saw the same ugly when I had a chance at Emilee being quiet. I didn't leave her indoors. She belongs with the loudness below the sign.

 The sign does not show anything but lines and an orangish haze that is also ugly, but ugly like the speakin' Issak did when my favorite color showed up on the tinfoil sheet.

 Ugly did not need to be shared. It was felt. Alone. Issak kept the loudness until I was bouncy enough to stop having weight useless to the one who kept the four above safe, and unseen.

 Now I am unseen but I feel loud enough to quit yelling.