Fault-Heaves (unfinished)

After endless sweeping, re-sweeping, hosing, spraying, sweeping, my dad finally paved the driveway, so I had to use the sidewalk to draw-constellations of circles with a strong, seamless star, seemingly brighter as I retraced its outline and filled in the frost-heave fault-lines; so real I was shocked that it had disappeared when I went to retrace it after lunch; up, down, over-left, straight right, down/over left, up, down, over-left, straight right, down/over left, up, down, over-left, straight right, down/over left, up, down, over-left, straight right, down/over left, up, down, over-left, straight right, down/over left.

I drew a circle around its absence until my inch thick chalk was mindlessly bloody from my possessed fingers that circled, circled, circled, around the black-hole, through the constellations, as wide as my arm and as small as my palm, circling, circling, and caked-up raw knuckles, brown with blood, to the knuckle with blood, circling, circling, round and round -stop.

Dad started screaming.

The pavement was dry.  It was stickier than fly paper, not dry enough for hop-scotch-chalk or bicycle wheels, but dry enough for me to get away with cutting across to the front door without getting caught... just not dry enough for my dad to cross.  He only wanted to sweep my chalky footprint-cake away.  He didn't even yell at me, only gave me the swaying head with a smiling sigh as he walked onto the hot pavement with his clean bare-feet, a small brush and pan, and a brush thick with tar. 

He sank right down.  Down, down, down to his knees, but not on his knees, in less than an instant as a star -the star I had made -screaming through the road, trying to turn pentacle-sharp corner to edge, metallically piercing a drag and calling up sandy sub-particles, miniature-tornadoes, slashing glass particles, attacking his bare legs and drawing him into a pool of tar, legs encircled by sand heating to glass, ripping to bone

He was sunk in, glued and screaming.  From the pain?  The shock?  And the screeching gets louder, the star, closer.  I hear the screaming, and I had never heard dad scream before!  I ran around the long way to get mom, up the neighbor's hill, around the pool, the porch.

I could hear the TV through the back door.  Its locked door shouts louder than my wrist knocking, forearm pounding, backdoor screaming, "MOMMY!" I unwrap myself from the porch and double back to finish encircling the house to get to the front door, which I know is opened.

My mom comes out yelling at my dad, "The screen's fucked-up!  Hey, Hey!  The TV stopped working!"  She opens the door and stops, dead still; the pentacle draws in the rhythmic circle from the bloody sidewalk, along with...