There’s a miniature volcano on his back with mortifying eruption. ‘Beauty is in mind’, his mom intones. But nobody recognizes. His classmates ‘honor’ him with some funny sobriquets. It resembles a cactus. He can’t eschew its thorns. He withdraws. Solitude is a shelter. It’s like a gas-producing cassava; his mind bloats with thoughts of inferiority. Whistles and whoops from the playground pain him no more. Recurrence blunts sorrow’s talon. He falls down through a siesta. Posthumous pity is a wreath. First published in The Literary Hatchet.