FRAZIER, Callum

[callum frazier]

callum atticus frazier - eighteen - senior - male - straight - mira - est – josh beech

MISSED CALL – BECCA – 2:21 AM – MARCH 11TH, 2010

Cal, baby, c’mon…just pick up. I’d think you’d have the decency to pick up on her birthday. She’s one year old now, you know. And she has your eyes, Cal. –pause- Do you know how much it hurts? A whole fucking lot. With you gone at that…that private school and me stuck here with our baby. That’s right, ours. I know you always used to say that with all the guys I was fucking there was no way it was yours, but hey guess what! It is. You haven’t called me back in…months. I get the message, you can’t be tied down with a fucking child and a girlfriend with stretch marks. Well guess what, Cal. I’m done, done with this bullshit. Done with you. Hope you’re having a lot of fun in your perfect life, asshole.

MISSED CALL – DAD – 9:27 AM – MARCH 21ST, 2010

Callum, don’t think I haven’t been looking into your school records. I got a call today from your dean…something about substance abuse? You and I both know we sent you to that school in an attempt to get you on the right track. This is not acceptable. With your sister attending school with you next year, I hope you’ll get your act together and set an example. She’s going to need a friend, and you better believe that you will provide it. However, I am impressed with your grades. You never told me you were so interested in Shakespearean literature.


Age Six
A boy in clothing that fits him a tad too loosely sits in a patch of particularly long grass, his vision directed towards the ground. The knees of his pants have been muddied, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. Tongue peeking from between his lips, his chubby hands struggle to capture a ladybug, ruby red in coloring. Once secured, he runs to a girl sitting not too far away. Her brown hair falls in curled locks to her shoulders. A smile missing a few teeth greets him. ”Here Becca, it’s for you.” The boy grins, handing her the ladybug.

Age Nine
A boy in clothing that hang heavy and dark on his skinny frame sits alone in a pew, his teary vision directed towards the ground. The sound of a priest droning on is interrupted by piano music, signifying the end of mass. The boy doesn’t move, he’s planted there, tears dotting the cold floor below him. A little girl tugs on his sleeve, but he pushes her away. She pouts and clings to their father, who is attempting to gain composure. Words of sorrow are directed towards him, flowers are placed on the altar. The boy misses his mother.

Age Fourteen
A boy in clothing that has been struggling to cover his rapidly growing frame sits with four other boys, his vision directed towards his friend holding the joint. The smell of marijuana is overwhelming, filling the basement. Suffocating him. But he likes that feeling, the feeling of his lungs being lit aflame. Laughter erupts among the boys and a bag of chips makes its way around the group. It’s been awhile since he smiled, and this is the only way he knows how to anymore. The boy takes a hit, expelling the smoke in a series of rings.

Age Sixteen
A young man in no clothing sits beside an equally exposed girl, his vision meeting hers. She’s so beautiful to him, the way her brown curls offset her blue-eyed gaze. Grins tug at both of their lips as they look at one another, his hand reaching out to stroke the side of her face. They were going to be together, forever. Just like this. The young man kisses her gently, then turns out the light.

Age Seventeen
A young man in worn clothing sits in class, vision wandered from face to face. It was his last year here before he would be pushed out into the great unknown, scrambling to make something out of himself. It’s clear by the looks on everyone else’s faces that they are thinking the same thing. They’re the spawn of the rich and affluent, there is no room for failure. Their parents never tell them that it is alright to be flawed, that there is room to fuck up sometimes. The young man closes his notebook, wondering if he would tell his daughter that.

Age Eighteen
A man in pajamas lies in bed, vision burning a hole in the ceiling. He was done with this monotony, done with the holding-cell they called school. It wasn’t enough that he had a thirst for knowledge, a passion for engaging himself in worldly topics. They had to drill it into him with tests and textbooks and worksheets and lesson plans. As for his own plans, he had none. Hands rubbed weary green eyes as his roommate pounded away at his laptop. Fuck this, he figures. The boy ignores yet another phone call as he turns over to try and sleep.

image credit to safa @ caution*