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Summer Fruit Sunsets

 

The summer before I left Andrea for college landed on one of the hottest years on record. The humidity spilled into the later months, pushing back autumn, as if both of us had willed summer’s extension with our selfishness, to spend as much time as we could together. She seemed like royalty, perched on a throne of moss-covered, wooden railings and rusted lawn chairs, looking out at her imaginary subjects, inviting me into her kingdom as some esteemed guest. Two queens from separate decks. I couldn’t piece together the reasons I drove back into her world every day, or what we never spoke of but should have. Yet, trying to question those memories was like wiping the dust off an old antique¾you just have to let it be, frozen in time and fragile.

Here she was now, sitting in just a bra and basketball shorts, sipping away at a virgin piña colada as if her mother had just gone window shopping a few towns over, and would be back before dinner. She would not. It was a Wednesday, but with the lazy July sun. Days seemed to merge together, keeping track of time didn’t matter when there was so much of it, and with nothing to do. She reclined under the backporch umbrella while I inspected the volleyball net sprawled on the backyard grass. The backyard itself wasn’t particularly large, but it opened up to acres full of uncut grass that eventually led to the outskirts of a small forest. Technically, it counted as unclaimed land Andrea could’ve called her own, but there was no use wandering through the tall grass that harbored ticks and deer droppings. Even still, the view was breathtaking, especially at dusk, when the sun fell perfectly behind the tall oak branches. I often hoped she would call me over every time the sky turned different colors, as if some god was picnicking in the clouds, peeling orange rinds and spilling cherry juice. That was the sunset she witnessed every day.

“Want me to help you out?” she said, sitting straight and raising her head in a genuine offer to lend a hand. In the moment I took it as a personal challenge, and declined her offer. “I just thought it was too much of a hassle to prop it up every other day since the thunderstorms kept knocking it back down. And it’s not like I make much use of it.” Summers in Virginia did offer strong thunderstorms, but the next day’s heat index would erase any hint of rain. The constant back and forth offered something to keep pace. I focused on the latter of her statement, as if my immediate response should have been to pity her and her isolation, but I doubt that would be her intent, when she knew I was spending time with her when I didn’t necessarily have to. And she didn’t seem at all ecstatic to leave the chair and chase some tattered volleyball.

Andrea and I had known of each other since freshman year of high school, sharing a few classes here and there, occasionally being her audience whenever she presented some grand project in English. She liked getting passionate over French authors no one knew of, blaring all the strange things she learned about their secret lives on Wikipedia. I think she liked getting reactions from crowds, whether of interest or entertainment. She was comfortable being put on a pedestal, some sort of passive confidence I couldn’t help but envy. That could’ve been the reason why we didn’t start talking until senior year, just a few months prior. We usually sat next to each other in poetry class, exchanging thoughts on Christina Rossetti and sharing snacks we carried in our sweater pockets. I can’t remember the catalyst to our newfound acquaintance, but Andrea was the type of person to carry a conversation with anyone, which made her bounce from group to group with ease. It seemed she was always in a genuine mood to be friendly and casual, and she could’ve seen something in me worth chatting up, but perhaps I’m overthinking her not-so-grand gesture.

We never spoke much outside of school until she made it a habit of inviting me over on ninety-degree days. We would share a bowl of strawberries, or tan on the lawn chairs. It took me by surprise for sure, and the first time I parked in her driveway, I kept looking over my shoulder expecting anyone else to show up, but she clarified it was just me when I asked if there was a party. I didn’t want to make things awkward. At that time I considered us friends, but I never expected to be the handpicked companion to share the day, out of everyone else she seemed to know. Sometimes I thought she only did this to get me to drive her to the nearest grocery store when her fridge was running low, but I couldn’t complain, considering even grocery shopping with her proved to be entertaining. She always took the mundane and flipped it on its back.

For a few weeks it played out like this, today no different, but I finally felt comfortable enough to leave the porch and fiddle with the fallen volleyball net to see if I could set it up once more.

I would have mentioned the option of playing with her mother, but I found out about that situation days before, when it was already a habit of mine to be her guest. We were sitting on the grass picking at weeds and flicking ants off our thighs. On a whim, I asked why she always had the house to herself. Slowly, she unraveled the story, but only after I picked at her brain with specific questions to see the whole picture. She gave vague answers, wanting to shrug off the subject. I could see why.

That summer, her uncle made constant visits to a veteran’s hospital out of state. Being his only other sibling, her mother drove three-hours north, to keep him company for days at a time. I could only imagine a racoon-eyed woman slumped in a disinfected plastic chair next to her brother. She still thought her brother was the same person who climbed apple trees for a quick bite, and would bandage her finger when she sliced it open peeling potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner. These were the stories she told her daughter in the rare times she came home, moments before passing out on the couch. Andrea repeated while we grazed our palms over the blades of grass, as if they were peach fuzz.

But with my new objective to raise the net, I could see how it gave the implication that I wanted to toss a ball back and forth, and really, I wouldn’t have minded if we did. Untangling the strings and digging to place the sun-eaten poles into the dry dirt, I thought I set it back up quite well, at least for the time being; I could tell it would fall back down by the time I left after sunset.

“So you don’t use this? Well now we can,” I responded. The “we” in my comment threw me off somehow, and looking back at Andrea’s face, seeing one eyebrow raise above her sunglasses made me want to retract my statement.

“You know it’s not for volleyball, right?” she asked, and I thought I heard a tinge of excitement in her voice. She took a final sip from her melted drink and got up with a long stretch. I took the moment to view the faint curve of her hips, the way her ribs protruded outward to hold a breath. She headed inside and left me with my pitched net. I studied the house, now that I didn’t have her to glance at, and tried counting the windows. They didn’t seem to have any order, and were patched around wherever they fit. Even with the large view and expansive land ahead, it was a quaint, two-story house, with less than a handful of rooms as far as I could tell, since I was never invited inside. Maybe I had already been invited in some unspoken sense, and didn’t have to ask to walk in. Andrea always loomed outside, however, so it felt off limits to barge in to refill a drink.

She returned with oddly shaped rackets and a pile of feathers in her fist. I tilted my head in curiosity, like a puppy hearing a whistle.

“Ever play badminton?”

Badminton. I should’ve known the feathers were a shuttlecock; that should’ve given it away had I put two and two together.

“I swear I had a newer birdie, but I guess not.” And she called them birdies, of course, why would I waste my breath with a three-syllable word like shuttlecock? While I debated in my head, she handed me a racket with a quizzical look, and I realized I had been dead silent the whole time she walked over.

“It’s been a while,” I said, heading to the other side of the net, “I used to play over at my sister’s house. I think she grew cherry tomatoes. Ate them like grapes. I didn’t mean to impose that we play or anything.” I studied the racket and let my fingers weave into the plastic grid, remembering how my sister would make me run left to right, aimlessly swinging at the air. I was too young to play well, but that was years ago. It’s strange how totally unrelated events, like Andrea standing in front of me with her face separated into pieces by the strings of the net, can bring back such familiar feelings.

Before I could react, she hit the shuttlecock, no, birdie, my way and it landed in the grass behind me. “You’re not imposing. If anything, I am.” She gave a soft chortle, expecting me to start the game again. I did, albeit a bit rustily, but time seemed to slow even more, and we went on back and forth, both in the game and in conversation. Bouncing between topics of alliteration and sportful taunts, I noticed how she let her dark hair brush her bare shoulders. Her shirtlessness took me some time to adjust to, but it was completely reasonable considering the waves of sunrays cast on us. Nothing more. Eventually she took off her sunglasses, if only for a few seconds, while she wiped her brow. I could finally see her eyes when she spoke. I liked being able to, as cheesy as it sounds, see the way she reacted with her natural expressions. How often had I looked directly at her? It all seemed so new. Then the glasses were back on and my questions dissipated. Instead, I focused on my own appearance, not comparing to hers, just checking if I was also radiating some sort of careless charm. The sweat started to collect on my weathered tank top, and several strands of my hair fell below my shoulders from the once tight bun that had held them in place. Careless, for sure.

We called it quits when the sky hinted it would start its color show, and we returned to the porch for another round of piña coladas. We both tilted our chins up to take in the sky. “This is my favorite part,” I whispered, not meaning to.

“The sunset? Yeah, I think it’s nice, but it means another day is ticked off, and I’d much prefer the afternoon to last forever, or at least a little while longer.” She took one last sip of her drink and slid her sunglasses further up the bridge of her nose. Was she trying to hint at the fact that right after the sun left, so would I? Did she like spending time with me that much? Or was I being selfish and believing everything she said was about me? She couldn’t possibly care that much, perhaps she just hated being alone. But why was it always me she wanted to spend hours with, picking wild blackberries that grew by the side of her house? I looked at her and asked the most melodramatic question, but it was the only one I could think of.

“With me?” I regretted it as soon as I asked, but then again, I hated everything I told Andrea and I could never tell why. Like everything I had to say never fit her standards of conversation, I wanted to offer her better, because I knew I could. But it was already out in the air for the mosquitos to fly through, to rise up into the sun and burn away. It took her a while to respond. Now I was sweating with the heat and the awkward atmosphere. This could be the last time I’d ever be invited to this safe haven miles away from the real world. I messed it up that much, catastrophically enough that she would assume more, dig deep into those two words and excavate some larger meaning. I had no idea how she would interpret that meaning. Hell, even if there was one I accidentally stuffed in between the letters, I’d have no idea what exactly it would be. I hadn’t thought about anything deeper that day than raising the net and counting windows, and here I was, feeding her dialogue we could both ponder over like a Christina Rossetti line in poetry class. It was nerve-racking to say the least.

Finally, she looked away from the sky and met my stare, no signature eyebrow raise this time, but maybe she wasn’t even looking at me. I couldn’t tell with the sunglasses and all. As if reading my mind, she took them off, but I couldn’t take this as some heartfelt gesture, the sun was bleeding away and she simply didn’t need them anymore. She matched my volume and said, “You could always stay over tonight, if you don’t want to drive back home in the dark,” and she turned to look up once more. If my jaw dropped, I hoped she couldn’t see from her peripheral vision. What a cheat, avoiding my question completely.

Before I could draw up some sensible answer, the gravel in the front yard started crackling under the weight of tires. An engine sound. Not waiting for my response, she jumped up and leaned against the side of the porch. Her expression filled with worry and panic, and I couldn’t tell why, since I knew it was only her mother. Maybe I would get to see if her demeanor was exactly how I’d imagined it. But my laid-back attitude didn’t match Andrea’s, and I wondered why. Before I could ask, she took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back. The relaxation techniques weren’t working, her shoulders simply rolled back into place just below her ears, tense. I found it endearing, but I couldn’t remember a time when I had seen her like this, and I worried about her strange reaction.

I began to stand up to join her staring, but she put a hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me away from the view of the front yard. She let go once I was out of sight, she couldn’t have held on for more than two seconds, and yet I wish she had let it rest there. Had she never touched me before, this whole time? I had to snap out of whatever clouded my judgement of the situation, of which I still didn’t understand. We were standing so close to each other now, and I enjoyed everything, except for the puzzled look she had, as if she were trying to solve some impossible equation.

“What’s going on? Isn’t it just your mom?” I finally had enough sense to ask the right question. She sighed and said yes¾the way she spoke opposite the way she looked¾barefoot and shirtless, ready for a day at the beach. I had never seen her so conflicted. Just moments ago, she had been as careless as ever, even when she couldn’t hit the birdie in time. I asked again what troubled her.

“It’s nothing,” she whispered, “I’m just not allowed to have guests over, and I can’t read her mood.” The car door slammed shut. Its heavy metallic thud scared away a flock of neighboring birds hidden in the branches. They scattered away like all of my inquisitions of what could’ve become of that evening, or the nights ahead. No reason to contemplate or complain nowadays, Andrea came and went like that summer season, as I should’ve expected, fading with the strawberry stains on my shorts. I keep her tucked in the back of my mind, for my imagination to sort out the finer details.

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Read Hair Trigger 2.0, Issue 3 here.

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Read Hair Trigger 2.0, issue 2 here.

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Read Hair Trigger 2.0, issue 1 here.

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Mom

 

People talk about how you end up with someone that’s like your parents, which always struck me as something weird and Freudian, until I met Lena. She looked more like my mom than my mom did sometimes, with the same wide, thoughtful brown eyes. The kind that remind you of the melting chocolate chips in homemade cookies: warm, soft, and sweet.

Her eyes bore into mine as my tongue wound its way around the wet folds between her legs. She pulled at my hair and I trailed kisses up her stomach as I replaced my tongue with my fingers. I sucked on the flesh that was pulled tight across her collarbones as she bucked against my hand, forcing my fingers deeper. She was warm and slick, and I gasped with her as she tightened her legs around me. My gasp resounded from the sudden prickling of a winter breeze coming in through the cracked window. It sent unpleasant goosebumps across my skin, chilled and starkly different from the smooth warmth of her body on mine. I focused on the heat inside her and the places her body met mine as she moved.

I closed my eyes for a second, imagining wrapping myself up in a blanket as warm as she felt around my fingers, not unlike the feeling I got curled in the quilt my mom made for me before I’d left for school. Lena’s moans brought me back to her; I slipped another finger in. I wondered how many fingers I could fit my whole hand? My fist? Would she like that? I remembered learning that a vagina could stretch enough to accommodate a baby.

I flexed my other hand—definitely smaller than a baby. Another frigid breeze wound its way around my body, and my mother’s words echoed, “I kept you warm and safe inside me for nine months.” I imagined that, the warmth and comfort, what it would be like. A blanket, I thought, or maybe more like a cocoon. If a full-grown human found itself in another womb, would it emerge as something new?

Without thinking, I fit another finger in, then eventually my fist. She pushed into me; she liked it. Her moans were loud, and I pushed deeper. She began to thrash at my elbow, her mouth wide as she screamed. I couldn’t hear her, though; I only saw the big, warm brown eyes of my mother, welcoming me home. I was up to my shoulders by the time the next wave of cold air hit me. It was so jarring in comparison to the smooth, warm chamber my arms inhabited, that it propelled me forward. My head dove in; it was quiet, and dark, and above all, I wasn’t cold. She’d stopped moving much before this point. I pushed with my legs until my torso was firmly placed in her. I wondered briefly if I would fit wholly. I was bigger than her, so I shifted, and tucked my head into my chest as I curled my spine in. Slowly, the rest of me followed. The fetal position worked as well now as it had twenty-three years ago. I was wrapped in a smooth dark cocoon. I felt safe and comfortable; the stress of life seemed miniscule here. Nothing to stress over when encapsulated, where life is fostered and protected. Maybe I could live here forever.

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Corrin Bronersky is a Chicago based writer and can be found in various coffee shops around the Chicagoland area. She eats, sleeps, and breathes words and coffee.  She has been recently published in The Lab Review at Columbia College Chicago.

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The Safe Place

 

Home is me in my bed alone. It wasn’t always like that, but the older I got, the more uncomfortable I became with anyone sleeping with me. I get anxious because it’s like they’re invading. This is hard on guys I screw since I don’t ever offer up my place. I don’t let family members sleep in my bed either, no matter how rude they think it is for me to offer them the couch.

The only time I loved sharing my bed was when my deaf grandmother on my dad’s side moved in with us for a few years. She was a recovering alcoholic with short brown hair who smelled like thick, earthy perfume. I was her only granddaughter. When we slept, she’d let me hang my short leg over her hip. She’d give me all the pillows because she’d rather rest her head on a folded towel. When I’d wake up thirsty, she’d instinctively sit up, reach for the jug of water on her bedside table, and unscrew the cap before handing it to me. I didn’t have to sign or touch her to communicate. If I did, it was to say goodnight and tell her I loved her.

I loved her for being nice to me, but also because my dad wouldn’t hit my mom around her. The few years she lived with us were the calmest my parents’ relationship would ever be. My grandmother’s presence was one of the only chances for our home to feel like a home. But my mom never wanted her there.

My mom thought my dad made my grandmother keep an eye on us while he was at work because my mom cheated a lot, especially with one of the mechanics from the auto place a few streets over. So, my mom made her miserable, picking fights with her over the smallest things, like how differently they did the cooking and cleaning, to make her feel like she was taking up space.

My grandmother eventually moved back to Mexico when I was eight. Her earthy perfume continued to waft from her side of our shared bed. I’d form her curvy body with pillows, and imagined hanging my leg on her. I missed her. My grandmother leaving was when I started feeling the most at home but only when I was in bed by myself. Sharing with anyone else felt like a sweaty nightmare. Afterward, I guess everything in terms of home felt that way.

My dad hadn’t done anything about my mom cheating until my grandmother left. One of those first nights he locked the door to their bedroom. Smashing furniture, shattering glass, and my mom screaming left me frozen in the hallway. I should’ve called for help. I should’ve stopped him. She was still my mom. But despite how scared I was, I remember hoping my mom regretted pushing my grandmother away. It was the most hateful I’d ever felt, and to this day it still scares me.

 

A few months after, and for the first time ever, my mom and I managed to flee without my dad catching us. We escaped to an emergency shelter for families fleeing domestic abuse. We had to share a bed. A childless Indian woman slept on the top bunk. I wanted to sleep on the top, but the place was too crowded for me to have my own bed.

My mom knew I hated sleeping with her. She’d caught me sneaking out of the room enough times that she forced me to sleep up against the wall. But that didn’t matter. She was a heavy sleeper. Most of the room snored, but my mom’s snores were like growls. She sounded like a sleepy demon, and I wanted out.

Her curly hair tangled over the pillow. If I stared at it long enough, it would start to look like clumped balls of dead spiders. I’d crawl away to the end of the bed to her small feet. Her toenails would scratch my arm as I slid down to the floor.

Our bunk bed was the furthest from the door. The scrapes on my arm would burn the more I crawled across the carpet. A digital alarm clock sat on the nightstand by the door. The red numbers were my guides.

Anytime my mom would toss and turn under the blankets, I’d stop dead in my path. I’d close my eyes and pretend to be a chunk of the dark. I waited to hear if she’d wake to throw something at me or come pull me up by my hair. If not, I’d keep slithering. Reaching the door, I would move onto my knees, glide my hand up to the knob, and escape.

I’d walk down the shadowy hall to check the payphone. Favian, the boy from room six, always hid a stick of gum in the change dispenser for me. He knew I couldn’t have gum. He thought my mom didn’t want me swallowing it and needing emergency surgery. But really, she thought chewing too much gum would make me lose my virginity. I honestly don’t know the science behind why she thought that, but I never questioned it as a kid. Mom knew best, I guess.

Favian became my buddy within a few days after I got to the shelter. We had been in a group counseling session with all the other kids. He asked me to feel his full head of hair before he’d have it cut the next day. Then we talked about our moms: both hard asses with snappy voices and obsessed with the Argentine-born singer Amanda Miguel.

The sofa next to the payphone was one of my favorite spots. Some couches feel like you’re getting lost in the rolls of a fat man, but that sofa had solid cushions, fluffy enough to freely roll around in without the fear of disappearing. I’d lie down on my back, close my eyes, and chew my gum. Sometimes, the gum would drop to the back of my throat and I’d choke. Other times, I’d fall asleep with it in my mouth and wake up to feel it in the same spot between the inside of my cheek and teeth. I wanted to make that sofa feel like home but it never worked out.

My dad would call me and I’d tell him to come find me. The ringing would shoot me awake. I’d hop off the sofa and yank the phone down by its chord. He’d call sometime after midnight because he knew my mom didn’t want him talking to me. She hated him for hitting her. I could hate him, too, because him hitting her made her hit me. But I didn’t hate anyone. I hated never being able to break them apart, like when my dad would drag her by her hair through the living room, or when he’d reach over to the back seat of the car to swing at her while he kept driving. We’d swerve, and she’d wrap her arms around me in case we crashed, instead of protecting herself from my dad.

 

As soon as I got to the shelter, I had weekly solo meetings with some type of counselor named Ms. Kim. The meetings were simple. I’d show up after breakfast, she’d ask me how I was doing, and we’d do an art activity while we talked. I didn’t understand at the time that the point of the meetings were to talk through my dad’s domestic abuse. I thought it was a way to keep the kids from getting bored.

On our first meeting, we were cutting out snowflakes as it was getting closer to Christmas. We sat across from each other at a table I knew was too low for her.

Ms. Kim asked, “Did she ever defend herself?”

I nodded.

“What was it like?”

The small pieces of paper fell onto the table as I kept cutting. “There was a lot of hair paint.”

Later on, I noticed Ms. Kim had a habit of untucking and retucking a strand of her red hair from behind her ear. Being new at what she was doing for us kids, I think she was always nervous.

She leaned in. “Hair paint?” Her lips were a hard line, and her brown eyes usually squinted at me like she wanted to read my mind. It always made me nervous.

“My mom had her hair tied up in a bun, a bunch of black in it, on her ears and neck. She was washing dishes in her bra and underwear. I ate cereal. I was going to school.”

“And your dad?”

“Getting home from work. He got mad that she was coloring her hair. He always said she colored it a lot for her other boyfriends.”

“That’s when they started fighting?”

I nodded. “My dad kept calling her a ho. So, my mom told him to fuck off, and he smacked her.” Ms. Kim hadn’t flinched when I swore. I realized I had said it when I grabbed another sheet of paper and folded it. It felt too late to say sorry.

“What happened after that?”

I grabbed the scissors, started cutting again, and allowed the white pieces of paper to keep sprinkling onto the table.

“My mom grabbed a knife and chased him around the house.”

She uncomfortably scrunched her brows for a second before forcing them to relax. “Were you scared?”

“A little. I was gonna get to school late.”

“What did you do?”

“I followed my mom to the front of the house. She locked my dad out. He tried to calm her down so he could come back in. But she’d stab the knife at the glass, and say bad words, like BAD words. My dad didn’t look that scared anymore. He was laughing.” I grinned down at my snowflake, remembering his playful smile covered by his mustache.

I think he laughed because he didn’t want to take her too seriously and let her win. My mom’s eyes had been knives of their own, and her breasts and curvy sides shook every time she stabbed at the glass, harder each time, wishing she could cut the smile off his face. For once, my mom hadn’t been the one running, and I was too young to realize how important that was.

“She was really upset,” Ms. Kim noted.

I nodded. “At me, too, because I was bothering her. I kept telling her I was going to be late to school, but she wouldn’t listen. When she did, she yelled at me to go finish my cereal.”

“How did you feel when she yelled at you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Sad? She was still mad I told my dad about the mechanic.”

“The mechanic?”

“One of my mom’s friends who’s a boy.”

My mom had given me that explanation every time I asked who a guy was, and it made complete sense to me.

Ms. Kim swept all the tiny pieces of white paper into a pile with her fingers. “What happened next?”

I shrugged. “I finished my cereal.” I rarely hesitated to talk about my parents fighting. I liked having Ms. Kim ask me questions, because my grandmother was one of the only people that ever asked me things consistently. It made me think for a little while that the shelter wouldn’t be all that bad. I unfolded my second snowflake and placed it next to the first one.

 

A few days later, all the kids were scattered outside of Ms. Kim’s group room after breakfast. Some were racing back and forth, and others were lying down on the carpet as obstacles, complaining that we’d been waiting for hours, although it’d only been a few minutes. Our group session was going to start soon. I had been sitting on the floor up against the wall next to Favian. I couldn’t help thinking I should’ve gone back to my room because I had caught ringworm after playing with the older boy who told me he could only pee upward. He told me about that randomly, so I don’t know if that was even true. Only I hadn’t known he had given me ringworm. I thought it was some flesh-eating disease that was going to take me out within a few days.

Favian kept nudging my shoulder. “Are you going to tell me?”

I shrugged.

 “Come on. You can’t say something’s wrong, and not say what’s wrong.”

I looked around at the other kids to make sure no one was listening. I kept pulling my turtleneck up against my chin, paranoid it’d slide down and expose my scaly red skin. My mom told me not to tell anyone I was sick, but I told Favian, “I think I’m dying.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Cancer?”

“I don’t know what it is.”

He glanced down at my turtleneck, and then back up at me. I nodded.

He scratched his shaved head and glanced around. Then he asked, “Can I see?”

I shook my head. “You’ll run away.”

“I won’t.” He reached for my neck.

I smacked his hand away with the long sleeve of my sweater. “No! You’re going to get it, too. You’ll die and your mom will hate me and tell my mom.”

I also didn’t want him to die because I obviously had a huge crush on him.

“Tell me!”

“I don’t know what it’s called. Something worms, like wings worms. I can’t remember.”

“What the fudge is that?”

I shrugged. “But it sucks, and you can get it if you touch me. So, don’t. And please don’t tell anybody.”

“Should I call 9-1-1?” He reached into the pocket of his sweatpants for quarters to use the payphone.

“No, save it for gum.”

A little girl came stumbling toward me. She was maybe two or three, and she sat on my lap. Favian and I both gasped, as if she was stumbling into her death. She really liked me, a curly haired black girl with big cheeks that were too precious to squeeze. I kept my hands hidden in my sleeves.

“Hey, cutie. Come sit here,” Favian patted the floor in front of him to save her from me, but she wouldn’t listen.

Her older brother with an afro and scar on his chin came up to us and snatched her away from me. He glared at my turtleneck. I looked down at the floor, feeling overwhelmingly guilty, because he knew that I knew I was contagious, and yet I was hanging around other kids.

“Don’t touch her,” he snapped, before walking away.

Ms. Kim came out of her room, and the kids screamed and ran to line up. The scarred boy went up to her and mouthed off. He pointed at me. My stomach stirred, and I could feel my blood rushing to my cheeks. Ms. Kim let all the kids go in, but asked me to stay. Favian lingered, his hands on his hips, ready to say something if needed.

“Favian, everything is fine. Frida and I are going to talk for only a minute. Go ahead.”

He hesitated before going in. The hall was deserted, shadowy with the hanging lights casting shadows, except for the scarred boy standing by the entrance to the play room. Ms. Kim hadn’t noticed. She put her hands on her knees to match my height. I looked down at the dark carpet.

“I’m sorry that you’ve been sick.”

I’m not sure why I wanted to cry, but the knot in my throat grew the longer she stared at me.

“Is it okay if I take a look?”

I nearly swung my sleeve at her, but knew to shrug instead. She pulled down the turtleneck and exposed the patchy red rings.

“Oh, sweetie.”

I bit my lip at the fact that I knew what was coming.

“You can’t join the group session today.”

I sighed and blinked repeatedly to keep the tears back. “But I like group” my voice cracked.

“I know you do, honey.”

I looked up at her then. Her tied back hair made her white face look gentler, a soft blush in her cheeks and big eyes.

“You’ll just have to hang out with your mom for a while until you get better.”

“I don’t like hanging with my mom.”

“It’s only for a little while, okay?”

I wiped away the tears from my oily, round face.

“Oh, angel,” she reached to touch my face, but stopped herself.

I pulled my turtleneck up over my chin. I slogged around her and down the hall to look for my mom. I walked past the scarred boy.

He told me, “Angels don’t have nasty skin.”

Even without ringworm, I still don’t think I have the greatest skin because of eczema: red, itchy, inflamed skin. That was the first time I ever felt disgusting, and that feeling hasn’t fully worn off since then.              

 

A few weeks later, I started feeling feverish, fatigued, and had muscle aches. If I stood for too long, my sight would blotch black. I’d get sweaty and faint. I’d collapse onto the closest thing to sit on, sometimes just the floor, put my head between my knees, and breathe like Ms. Kim had shown me. My mom thought I had the basic flu. She gave me pills too big for me to swallow. I’d choke and cough them up into my hands in a slobbery mess.

She’d yell at me in the bathroom where no one could hear us, “How you expect to get better?”

I felt the most alienated in the dining hall. I rested my head on the table, confident my forehead would leave behind sweaty smears, but I didn’t care. The kids chowed down on their grilled cheese sandwiches with their mouths open. My mom was assembling mine like all the other mothers had done for their kids. If I wouldn’t eat, she’d pinch my arm when no one was looking, call me mocosa, and blame me for being sick. But I couldn’t eat. My mouth was filled with blisters and it hurt to chew.

I was an eight year old that caught herpes. I didn’t realize it until years later. I get flare ups from time to time, and the symptoms are all too familiar to the first time at the shelter. I had a habit of sticking my fingers in my mouth. I can’t remember who I might’ve touched, or if one of my cuts or rashes made me vulnerable when playing with the other kids or getting coddled by one of the other moms. But I’m pretty sure the boy with the upside-down penis had something to do with it.

My mom came over with a grilled cheese sandwich made from the butts of the loaf of bread on a paper plate. If I didn’t feel so crappy, I might’ve appreciated her kindness a little more.

She pulled her chair closer to me, “Tuviste suerte.” 

It was the last sandwich, but I still don’t think there’s anything lucky about butt slices. I eyed my sandwich disappointedly, while the other kids stretched the melted cheese high above the table before lowering it down into their mouths, munching carelessly.

K.K., the boy with pierced ears and bony fingers, pointed at my plate saying, “Ew, you eating ass.”

He turned to the other kids, and they laughed. My mom gave them a soft grin with her colorless lips from giving up makeup. She didn’t understand English, and assumed K.K. was making polite small talk. My cheeks would have flushed, but I was already warm.

I lowered my head, pulled off a piece of sandwich, and put it into my mouth. I wanted to feel hungry. I wanted my mouth to water at the comfy smell of molten cheese and buttered bread. Instead, I felt like a fat baby was sitting on my head, and my skin was oily from the Vicks my mom had rubbed all over my chest and nose, because she was so convinced that I had the flu, and didn’t think I needed any doctor visits.

I tried to chew, but the toasted bread rasped against the blisters, sending stabs throughout the roof of my mouth and up my nose. I flinched and stopped chewing. I let the bread sit on my tongue, and waited for my saliva to melt it away.

 

I stood in front of the sink in the community bathroom with a cup of salt water in a Styrofoam cup. My mom said it’d help with the blisters, but it didn’t stop me from staring into the cup like it was something toxic. I was worried it’d melt my gums because maybe my mom had grown tired of having a sick kid. After leaving my dad, I was convinced maybe she thought she could get rid of me, too.

My mom came into the bathroom, and I pretended to drink.

“Se siente mejor?”

I nodded and kept the cup against my face. In the mirror, I watched my mom walk behind me to the toilet. She was wearing my dad’s purple work shirt with El Taconazo printed on the back. She pulled down her pajama pants and sat. I put the cup down on the counter and stared at the mirror some more. I could see my brown forehead and short, wavy, black hair. She had cut it earlier because I got lice. So, I get why Favian had gotten his head shaved. My dad would’ve called my hair cute, but all I saw was Dora the Explorer. I still see Dora the Explorer when I look at pictures.

My mom farted and I switched the sink on to let the water flow as loudly as it could. But it wasn’t enough. The farting echoed in the toilet bowl, and I could smell hard-boiled eggs. I glanced at her, not sure how to stand there without looking awkward. Maybe now I’d ask my mom what the heck she ate, but back then, I was scared shitless witnessing her poop.

She glared and tossed her long, tangled, brown her behind her shoulder. She shouted, “Que me miras?”

I turned back to the mirror. She wiped her butt, pulled up her pants, and flushed. I brought the cup back to my lips but didn’t drink. My mom came over to the sink. I watched her look down at me through the mirror. Her thin eyebrows nearly disappeared into her wrinkles, and I could see the fresh marks on her chin from picking at her skin with her long nails when she got nervous. I felt my stomach swell into my chest, making it hard to breathe. My hands get sweaty now just remembering.

She snatched the cup from my hand and looked in it. It was obvious I hadn’t been drinking any. I stared at the drain, feeling stupid for not dumping some out. She rammed the cup into my face. It crumpled and tore, spilling the water down my neck and chest. The edges scratched my cheeks. But what had hurt most was her palm bashing my nose. I moved my hands to hold my face. I used to think that stopped the pain from rushing to the rest of my body.

I locked my eyes on the drain, and she smacked the back of my head, swearing it was the last time she’d try to help. She stepped around my puddled-self, and left the bathroom. Each time she hit me, it convinced me she hated me. I didn’t get used to it until I was maybe in late middle school. I didn’t learn the smack, pinches, and name-calling didn’t mean she didn’t love me until I was maybe in high school. Well, I kind of learned. I still second guess it.

I gently licked the crown of my mouth. I focused on the soft and swollen bumpy texture to keep from crying, I teared up anyway. I stuck my thumb in and up against the roof. The blisters didn’t burst and made me cry out against the mirror.

I pulled my thumb out and caught my breath. Then I stuck my thumb back in and tried again, using my nail instead. I didn’t feel any popping. It only burned. I pulled out my thumb again, smeared red from my mouth bleeding. I spit into the sink, blood and mucus.

 

After the night my mom and I left my dad for good, I spent years wishing I had known so I could’ve warned him. She shook me awake and told me to get my ass up. I grabbed the book bag she had packed with all my socks and underwear, but not enough shirts. Before leaving I peeked into my parents’ room. The TV was still on, flashing light along the walls and bouncing shadows. My dad was deep asleep on the bed, still wearing his work boots. I couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d feel waking up to an empty house.

My mom pinched my arm and pulled me away from the room. We hurried out onto the frosty front lawn where my old kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Cabrejo, was waiting for us in her red, rusty van. She kept glancing at our windows. Jumping into the van, I could easily see her thick, scrunched eyebrows in the dark. She was in her pajamas, too.

She asked my mom, “How are you feeling?”

My mom slowly pulled the door shut. “I think I’ll feel better once we’re off this street.”

Mrs. Cabrejo looked back at me. “Sleep, Fridita. It’ll be a little while until we get there.” She adjusted the heat. “You let me know if you two feel too warm.”

I was cold, but my hands were sweaty. My mom hadn’t explained to me we’d be leaving. I’ve added it to the list of everything else she didn’t bother to tell me because she thought it wasn’t important, or because she thought I wouldn’t understand.

“It’s called The Safe Place.” Mrs. Cabrejo was shaking and wouldn’t stop adjusting the heat. “It’s a shelter for families like yours. You’re going to love it. You’ll sleep a lot better.”

It confused me how sure she sounded about me sleeping better elsewhere. The only other time I slept as well as I did when my grandmother and I shared a bed was during long car rides. My parents and I would stroll around the mall, in and out of stores, without ever buying anything. Then my dad would buy us dollar ice cream cones. The drive back home he’d play his oldies mix, hold my mom’s hand, and I’d fall asleep in the back seat feeling the safest I’d ever felt in my life. The drive to the shelter felt the exact opposite.

---

Come Away to the Water

Down along the riverbank

feet deep in sand

tread carefully and not too loud

for danger is at hand.

 

You hope to glimpse a water nymph

with slim legs and fair hair

but who you meet is something worse

she’s lurking in her lair.

 

The restless soul of someone lost

who died a death so bleak

in the lake she may have drown

or in spirit, so to speak.

 

With sallow skin and withered hands

and eyes as dull as stone

she’ll pull you down into the depths

this wicked water crone.

 

Her father knew this well when he made that bargain.

As he drags her through the mud, her bare feet slipping¾its cold bite feeling like that of an asp Eleanor sobs and pleads with her father to stop. The moonlight shines a path through the foliage, unphased by the cloudless night, it guides her father like a beacon. The stars twinkle above, unbothered.

Her mother scrubbed her down beforehand, her hands bearing buckets of water. Eleanor tried to fight when she was stripped, but this woman was not her mother.

Not with a face of stone and hands of iron. Not when she looked into those brown eyes and all she saw was the cold stare of hatred in place of the usual, gentle, passion and love.

When she was naked before her mother, she dumped the water on Eleanor and attacked her with brushes and soaps, not even hesitating as she washed her everywhere, even when Eleanor shrieked at her mother to stop.

Shaking and weak from the effort of fighting, Eleanor barely had any strength to retaliate, as her mother dragged a comb through her long, black hair, yanking hard enough that Eleanor’s eyes watered. Her mother left her hair unbound, and dressed her in a plain green robe. With nothing beneath.

Eleanor begged her over and over. But her mother might as well had been a stranger.

When she left, Eleanor tried to squeeze out of her bedroom door after her. Her father shoved her back in.

“You no longer belong to this family,” they both kept repeating. More for themselves than for her.

A sacrificial lamb for the slaughter.

Now the bath seemed useless, as her body is drenched with sweat from the trek, making the fabric of the robe cling to every hollow and curve, leaving little to the imagination, the chill of the spring night peaking her nipples. Muck is caked up to her ankles, and little scratches mar her ivory skin from the branches dragging against her like nails. Like claws, she imagined, trying to pull her back, pull her away from her father, from that lake, but they could not succeed.

She tries to wrench her arm free, but her father’s grip is like that of a bear trap. She continues to plead and beg to him, but he just stomps through the mud and brush.

Eleanor didn’t expect him to become so desperate, so pathetic. This past winter had been rough, and instead of staying in the village’s usual hunting and fishing spots, he chose to raid the Nymph’s Lake.

Swimming and fishing in this lake is forbidden due to the creatures inhabiting it. They would grab unsuspecting swimmers with their webbed fingers¾their jagged nails digging in deep¾and drag them beneath the surface before they could scream.

Supposedly, there are five who live amongst the reeds and lily pads. Eleanor rarely glimpsed more than their shining heads peeking through the glassy surface. They forbid anyone from fishing in their territory and attempts to drive them out had previously failed¾miserably. As a result, the lake had run dry: the water turned to mud, fish died by the hundreds, and eating them caused incurable disease. However, they make an exception when there is something they can gain. They like to bargain and trade; they ask for something in exchange for allowance to fish in their lake. In turn, the lake is now decorated with odd trinkets¾on the trees, in the cattails and bushes, buried in the mud or left on rocks.

Under a large weeping willow, there’s also been a makeshift shrine erected between the roots. Eleanor can’t remember when there weren’t any flowers, candles, and fruits tangled between the roots as thick as her wrist.

Her father had made such a bargain with the nymphs, and when her mother asked how he was going to pay such a large sum, his cold, gray eyes only looked to Eleanor.

Her hair is still barely dry as thick strands of it cling to her back, dampening the robe. Her poor circulation leaves her skin as cold as ice.

Perhaps she should feel flattered, somehow. Her father would have to still think of her as valuable in some way if he’s dragging her there.

The glittering surface of the water emerges over the small hills of grass, between the birch trees and the curtains of the weeping willows. Its calm façade is a trap.

Grinding her teeth, Eleanor digs her feet into the cold mud and attempts to run. Her father hadn’t expected it, so one wrist slips free, and she doesn’t hesitate to rake her nails along her father’s hand, freeing her other.

Eleanor bites back her cries of pain as her torn feet slap into the sharp stones and dry branches. She hears twigs cracking behind her, and she only makes it four long strides before a strong and cruel grip locks around her hair.

Eleanor screams in agony as her father yanks her back, throwing her to the ground. Her cheek scraps along a rough root bulging from the ground, her hands skinned on the rocks. Lights dance in the darkness of her eyes, the world tilting. Warm blood dribbles down her leg from a cut on her knee.

As she rubs her head, her father is already there, gripping both her wrists in one hand, and backhanding her with the other.

Both cheeks stinging, he hauls her to her feet, and they continue towards the lake.

“No!” She roars, echoing across the empty sky. “NO!”

Eleanor can’t fight back against her father’s hands that move to grab her under her arms and drag her toward the calm water. She can feel the wind tickling her cut and bloodied feet as she kicks and thrashes, trying to claw her way free.

Closer and closer, he hauls her, like a bucking horse, toward the rippling water. Trinkets from other offerings dangle from branches or sit knotted to cattails, winking in the moonlight. The mud and sand are littered with more shiny things, others are too covered with mud to recognize.

She could see two waiting heads peeking from the water, eyes on the flap of the robe that falls open as she kicks, revealing her thighs, her stomach, everything to them. Eleanor sobs, even as she knows the tears will do her no good.

The heads submerge under the water, leaving little ripples behind.

Oh, gods. Oh, gods.

Eleanor yanks back one last time, falling to her knees, ignoring her open robe. She scrambles to crawl away, digging her nails into the mud. Her nails crack on the rocks as she continues to pull herself away. Her wordless pleas wrap her dirtied body. “Please,” she begs. “Please, father¾!”

Agony rakes across her head, scalp throbbing, with a slap of his hand. Pain ripples across her face, and she feels blood drip from her nose as she topples into the mud. A harsh blow to the face, so hard her teeth sing. She doesn’t have time to raise herself properly before her father grabs her by the hair again, right at the roots, the grip so brutal tears sting her eyes, and continues to drag her to the edge of the water.

As quickly as it happened, he pauses, but his hand still grips her hair. Eleanor angles herself to look at the lake, gripping her father’s wrists.

She nearly soils herself. The forest has gone quiet.

Standing at the center of the lake, is a slender, gray-skinned figure, staring with massive eyes that are wholly black. Like a stagnant pond.

Even when her father releases her hair, Eleanor can’t find it in her muscles to run. Immobilized by fear, she watches as the creature slinks through the water towards them.

She wears no clothes. Her long, dark hair hangs limp over her high, firm breasts. As she moves, the moonlight shimmers on her iridescent skin. When she stops just at the water’s edge, she lowers her delicate, pointed face towards Eleanor. Her nose is little more than two slits, and delicate gills flare beneath her ears.

Completely at odds with the childhood rhyme she had memorized when she was young.

Quivering like a leaf, Eleanor looks to her father, whose eyes are wide with shock . . . and fear.

The nymph stops just past the water’s edge.

“Speak, mortal.” She orders. Her voice is strange and hissing, her full, sensuous lips revealing teeth as sharp and jagged as a pike’s.

“I have brought an offering.” Her father says, his face like granite.

The nymph cocks her head to the side, those unearthly features devouring Eleanor. She had been told that the water nymphs eat anything.

Eleanor can’t hold herself up as her father shoves her to the creature’s webbed, clawed foot. Its color a molten grey.

“In exchange, I get to fish from here whenever I want.” He states. It was an effort to keep from gaping at the immovable face, at the pure command in the words.

“You would give me one of your kin, in exchange for access to my lake?” The sharp angles of her face accentuate those coal-black eyes.

“It seemed befitting for the amount of fish I gathered.”

A whimper punches its way out of her throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the shadow of the nymph turn to look to her.

“But she is still your flesh and blood.” She says, taking a step closer.

A too-casual shrug of his shoulders. “One less mouth to feed. And we can always make more.”

His words are icy.

Eleanor huddles into her robe. If she hadn’t felt enough betrayal before, then this is what has broken her soul.

Her fear has now turned numb, solidifying her like stone as she clasps her hand over her breasts.

The mud has licked its way up to her knees, staining her robe, and sending a chill up her spine where it has soaked her lower back. The nymph takes another step closer, lined with preternatural smoothness. She beholds the disheveled Eleanor¾her dirtied legs, her scratched arms, broken nails, bruised wrists, and drying blood at the end of her nose.

Eleanor forces herself to look up at the creature. She can’t even find the words to defend herself. Her heart cracked, her soul shredded, her body grows still in acceptance of death. Her shoulders slouch and she takes deep breaths.

The creature’s face is as placid as the water’s surface. Perhaps even bored. Eleanor feels so exposed with this robe, and she bows forward, pressing her forehead to the ground. The nymph slowly extends her slender arm, a ripple of scales winking in the silver light. Her gills open and close with each steady breath.

Then she swipes.

Eleanor doesn’t scream, barely having the time, but ready to feel those claws tear at her throat. Instead, something drips onto the back of her neck. Eleanor opens her eyes to find that, she still has them, is still kneeling in the cold muck.

A garbled choking from behind has her slowly looking over her shoulder.

The nymph’s glittering hand has shoved through the throat of her father, puncturing it wholly. Her father still gives a garbled scream as the nymph slashes his eyes into ribbons with her other hand, his throat shredded seconds later.

Her father collapses face-first into the mud. His face looking toward her. Numb with shock, Eleanor can only stare in horror, her eyes welling. She soils herself and covers her gaping mouth.

Blood runs down the nymph’s hands, her forearms. Even though her father hasn’t moved, the nymph snaps his neck with a brutal crunch. Eleanor scrambles out of the way as the creature plunges her hand into his back, into his body.

Flesh tears, revealing a white column of bone¾his spine¾which she grips, her nails shredding deep, and breaks in two.

Eleanor trembles as the nymph grabs her father’s body by one ankle, and in a smooth motion, lined with restricted power, lifts it, throwing him into the lake like a pebble. His body crashes against the surface, and within seconds a heavy foam surrounds him, water lapping and splashing as the nymphs each take their bite out of him. A tainted puddle of red slowly blossoms in the water.

The nymph watches. Eleanor can only do the same.

Once the way is cleared, and the final bone of his body has been picked clean and pulled under, the nymph walks towards a group of cattails and cleans her hands in the mud.

Eleanor is still frozen, still staring at the water as the final ripple crawls across the surface. Her hands are shaking, face tingling, and her cheeks are raw from crying. But she can only stare. Only listen as the nymph sighs in disgust as she continues to clean her hands. She picks under her clawed nails, sneering at the blood, as if it is impure.

After another minute, the nymph is standing at her side. Eleanor doesn’t dare to look at her yet.

Finally, she mumbles, “Why?” Her voice hoarse from her screaming.

“Any man who betrays his kin in greed is unworthy to fish in my lake.” The nymph hisses.

Eleanor doesn’t bother to stand.

“You may go back to your home. We’re done here.” The nymph says, water lapping as her feet enter the water’s edge.

“No,” Eleanor blurts out before she can stop herself. The nymph pauses for a moment, the water having reached up to her ankles.

Eleanor folds her lips in as the creature stares at her with an unnatural stillness. When her eyes flick to the puddle beneath her, Eleanor’s cheeks redden.

She forces herself to her feet. “M-m-my mother, she’s the one who dressed me . . . like this. She didn’t stop him. And, and after what he said, I¾I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back.”

The nymph turns to face her and asks quietly. “Where will you go?”

Eleanor ponders for a moment, daring to touch the abyss of silence within her. “Anywhere,” she then says. “As far away as I can get.”

“And what would you do?” The water quietly trickles.

Eleanor shrugs, and realizes that the creature is standing a mere foot away from her. The creature takes a step back, seemingly surprised by her own approach. She’s a few inches taller than Eleanor.

“Live my life, I suppose. Live it the way I want to. Attempt to get back to normality after . . . this.”

“How far would you go?”

Eleanor looks to the night sky, for the first time admiring the glittering sea of stars above her. “I’d travel until I found a place where I won’t even think my parents. If such a place exists. And I will never come back.”

Not since her parents had been so willing to slaughter her like a simple farm animal. Eleanor huddles into her robe. She’ll have to go back to the cabin to fetch some of her better clothes¾if her mother hasn’t already thrown them out. If so, she may just resort to stealing from their deposit box her mother keeps under the sink. Eleanor breathes, attempting to numb herself, distance herself from these people; to no longer make them her parents. Just strangers.

The nymph is simply watching her.

“Here,” Eleanor pulls the silver band from her middle finger. It was a gift her parents had given her when she turned eighteen four summers ago. She offers it to the nymph, “Take this.”

The nymph’s eyes widen, frowning at the ring shining in Eleanor’s palm. “For what?”

“For saving my life. It is nothing compared to what I should give you, but it is all that I have.”

With a final assessing look, the nymph’s cold, clammy fingers brush against Eleanor’s, gathering up the ring. It glimmers like light on water in her webbed hands. “Why?” She asks, her voice slithering over the words, and Eleanor shivers again as the nymph’s black eyes threaten to swallow her whole. “This could’ve brought you some form of profit if bargained right. Most likely enough to leave town, or to buy a new dress.”

“There was no guarantee, anyway. Besides, that’s the deal. You helped me, and I give you something in return.” Her voice is so small, so broken.

A cold breeze has Eleanor trembling and huddling into herself, trying to secure any kernel of warmth. It’ll be close to a mile walk back to the cabin. It will be a miracle if she can make it. Her feet are throbbing from the cuts of hidden stones in the mud, and if they get infected . . .

Then she has to worry about any poisonous plants that her bare skin brushes up against, possibly having to find some place to settle for the night. Then she may be able to sneak into the house while her mother is gone.

“Perhaps I could interest you in another method of payment.” The nymph suddenly says, stepping close to gently grasp Eleanor’s elbow. She pauses, quite stunned at the soft touch. Slimy, yes, but gentle, as if she’s grasping an egg.

Eleanor’s shaking begins anew as she takes a deep breath, and wordlessly begins to open her robe, the folds falling off her shoulders. The nymph stops her with a webbed hand on her wrist.

“Not that. Something else.” Eleanor could’ve sworn there was a smile on the nymph’s lips. Eleanor’s cheeks warm with embarrassment.

“Then what do you ask of me?”

“The currents of the water hear all, speak all. They whispered to me of your father’s interest in this lake.”

Eleanor blinks back the sting in her eyes, adjusting the robe. “What of it?”

“I had asked for company as payment for his bargain.”

Eleanor opens her mouth, but then says, “To . . . eat?”

A laugh that makes Eleanor’s skin crawl resounds. “To tell me of the surface life. I was curious about it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

A shrug of those slim, gleaming shoulders. “He never asked. So I was interested to see where his choices would lead him. And well, we can see how that ended.”

For a moment, her anger is solid and boiling, but she also understands. Her father could’ve taken her words in any way, and due to their reputation, immediately it went to the worst outcome. “What does this have to do with me?”

“I would still like the company. This lake is big enough for another affiliate.”

Eleanor’s eyes look to the water, then to the nymph. It is her turn to ask, “Why?”

A nod. “You have a strong heart. Compassionate and kind. Gentle and sweet. You look at the hardness of the world and decide to love and to be kind. You gave me your last possession, instead of using it to your advantage. It is a different form of strength that is underappreciated.”

A ghost of a smile widens Eleanor’s lips. “And, how, exactly will this be able to happen?”

The nymph smiles. “Have you heard of the legends stating that a nymph’s kiss can save sailors from drowning?”

Heat stains Eleanor’s cheeks. “No, I have not.”

“Because it is something we only share with people we like.” She is mere inches away, her webbed feet buried in sand. “The choice is yours.”

Eleanor looks back towards the trees and foliage, as if she can see all the way back to the small cabin just at the edge of town. She looks back to the water nymph. “Will it hurt?”

The nymph smiles widely, and Eleanor must resist the urge to take a step back, as she leans forward. She lifts her hand to caress Eleanor’s cheek, catching a stray tear she didn’t feel. She takes a quick breath as the nymph places her wet lips on hers. She smells of fish, but the scent mingles with fresh lilacs and roses.

The kiss sends a zinging current snapping against her skin, and as it crawls with goose bumps, it feels like a ripple that is slowly washing away her human blood until it is smooth like sand, molding her brittle bones into fresh steel.

Her lips are hot and soft against hers¾tentative¾even when the kiss deepens. Her clawed hand traces along Eleanor’s cheek before resting at the nape. There’s a tickling sensation just below her ear, and it’s enough to make Eleanor gasp, breaking the kiss.

The nymph takes a step back, smiling softly. Eleanor’s hands fumble to her neck, and she hisses when her nails scratch against an open flap of skin. When she inhales, the air tickles, and she can smell everything. The wet mud surrounding the pond, the freshwater lilies in bloom, the shift in the salty wind as a storm approaches. She can also smell her father’s blood, lingering near the center of the water.

When she looks to the nymph, she is only smiling with joy. Unfiltered joy. She extends her webbed hand.

When Eleanor looks to her own, she hadn’t realized she’d stiffened her fingers together. When she slowly opens them, the webbed skin between them stretches. Strong, and taut. Her cuts and bruises have healed, her nails having regrown into points. Not one stain of crimson on her now-shimmering skin, like that of a pearl. In the moonlight, she can see patches of scales already pressing through her skin, as if in an attempt to shed it.

“It will take your body some time to process the change. There will be growing, and shedding, and adapting.” The nymph says softly.

Eleanor looks to the outstretched hand. Slowly, she discards her robe. The chill of the spring night is gone. Replaced with a breeze that sings to her, that whispers bouts of warmth and salt.

After another moment and a deep breath, she takes the nymph’s hand. She follows her hip-deep into the water, and the nymph says, “Welcome home, sister.”

With one final exhale, Eleanor dives headfirst into the water.

---

The Countdown

 

  She held her cigarette tight between two fingers as she shut the balcony door. Sounds of the busy street mixed with cicadas below washed over her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, in and out, nice and slow. When she opened her eyes, her vision darted to catch a bird flying past the balcony. Vanessa glanced at the street several stories below. The wicker chair with peeling green paint revealing old faded blue sat to her right. Vanessa sighed and took her throne with gusto, sinking into the ugly floral cushion.

     With a couple sparks from her cheap Bic lighter, the end of the cigarette caught and she slowly took the sweet menthol tobacco into her lungs and exhaled, returning the lighter to her pocket. The smoke drifted briskly away from her lips and dispersed into the air around her and above to the scattered clouds reflecting the warm evening sun.

     Ten.

Vanessa sat back, biting her lip, careful to pull off the chapped skin. She drew the cigarette back to her lips. Ready to smoke, to think. It was a short time before she had to go back inside– roughly four-to-five minutes, maybe ten drags from the Marlboro hanging in her fingers, and she would be back to the cold, away from the embrace of the sun and the sounds of the city.

      Nine. Two flicks.

She nearly forgot to take time between each pull to make it last and take in some breaths of actual air instead of the menthol crystallizing in her lungs. Vanessa curled the edges of her lips to a soft smirk, flicking her eyes to the metal bucket to her right. How many days are in there?  Some cigarettes were from that day, others weeks old, months old, copious amounts of cigarette butts with different shades of red lipstick, some barren, like today’s, or a couple when she was trying to wear darker shades and he didn’t like it. Purples, blues, even some black lipstick; all faded, and forgotten.

     Eight. Two flicks.

     Vanessa took a deep breath of real air again and let her arm hang over the armrest of the chair, letting the light wind brush against her. He hated the smell of her when she came inside from the balcony. That’s three times a day (at least) that he wouldn’t kiss her, wouldn’t hold her. She had to brush her teeth if she wanted to be near him, and let the smell dissipate after a while. Perfumes sometimes helped, but not always. At the very least, he hated seeing her get weepy and panicking all the time, so she was allowed this solace on the balcony when she needed it.

      Seven. One flick.

      Flashes of memories struck her. The argument about that actor in that one movie last month really stuck with her for some reason. She said he was in a movie, he said he wasn’t in that movie, that’s all she can remember of what was said, nothing important was ever said during fights like that. He threw the remote at the wall and it rattles now. It took him forever to admit he got too angry about nothing, never saying the word sorry, she noted. They had sex to forget about it later that night. 

      The next week he was trying to diet to make sure that she wouldn’t leave him for someone better. He was so hungry that he told her to fuck off and die when she offered to make some food for them, but that was just him being “snippy”. It was warm out, too, he said, she knew how he got when it was too hot.

       A drop of sweat slid down Vanessa’s cheek and hung to her chin. She brushed it away and threw her hair behind her shoulders.

       Six. Two flicks.

       She tried to rationalize. At least she had work the next day, and that will keep her mind off things. At least he did the dishes that day, for once. At least she had a job. At least he stopped cheating on me when I’m there, she thought. At least he apologized for that. Vanessa took time with the next long drag.

He wanted her to quit smoking, because he cared about her, he said. Why didn’t she care about herself? Doesn’t she understand that if she left him he’ll just die? Why didn’t she understand anything?

        Five. One flick. Nicotine hits.

        Vanessa leaned back in her throne and slowly exhaled the smoke, resting her head on the back of the chair, able to relax just a little. Finding comfort in hisold chair, on his balcony, his apartment, was funny to her in some ways.

        She found she just didn’t have the energy or the height to climb over the balcony railing many days like today. 

        The cicadas roared in the trees below.

         Four. One flick.

         She picked at the paint on the chair with her left hand. The red paint was chipping off her nails, too. Vanessa bent the tips of her fingers inward and felt the lip of the nails on her skin where she bit them down. 

         How many apologies has it been?  

         Three. One flick.

          Enough, she thought.

          Two.

          She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the evening July sun on her lids. The cherry was at the very end of her cigarette. Vanessa wanted another one but her pack was inside next to him. The argument would be a pain.

          One. Squeezed out the cherry. Burnt thumb.

          How many Julys has it even been anyway?

          Enough, she thought.

 

Sabrina Clarkeis a fiction writing student at Columbia College Chicago. Previously, she has won first place in the fiction category of the Skyway Writing Festival in 2016 and second place in nonfiction in 2017. She has been published three years in a row in the literary magazine Horizons, as well.

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The House That Flowed Through to the World

 

There once was a house lived in by Mr. Him and his son and Mr. Hum and his son, and this house flowed through to the world. Mr. Him and his son and Mr. Hum and his son didn’t actually live all in the same house; they had two houses side by side, but where there might have been solid walls there were instead odd-shaped doorways that would just fit a man and his son. 

And these doorways flowed from house to house, from building to business, from banker to blacksmith, school to sweet shop, carport to club (men’s club, of course). They flowed through to the world.

These doorways were quite a work of art, perfected over centuries. They were cut from oak, carved in intricate designs, the edges carefully beveled and all polished to a deep rich glow. They radiated manliness, as only oak can. And each was shaped to fit a man and his son. You could see the size and shape of the man’s work boots, the square corners of man and boy’s shoulder. Even the cowlick atop the boy’s head that boys can never quite comb down, was cut exactingly into this frame.

This is ridiculous, you might say. Boys grow taller! Men grow wider! A carpenter could work his whole life away and not keep all those doors in proper shape! And besides, neither Mr. Him nor Mr. Hum or either of their two sons had ever picked up a hammer in his life. . . . (Well, actually there was this one time, when Mr. Hum tried to hang a picture of his son. And oh, what was done to Mr. Hum’s thumb! Finally, he hit the nail so hard it flew through the wall and out the other side. It missed Mr. Him’s head by a whisker of an inch. This caused much consternation, as you can well imagine, and they decided no more pictures from then on. When they wished to remember them, they’d look at their boys.)

So who built these doorways, and changed them so often as sons grew taller and fathers grew wider? It can’t just happen by magic, you say. You say! It was magic of sorts, but not the sort of glitter dust in the air and poof! sort. It was elves. Who else? The carpenters of the world. And they didn’t just work at night when everyone else was asleep. How could they with all the doors that flowed through to the world to maintain? No, they buzzed among the men’s feet all through the day, and well into the night, tape measures out, now crouched on a shoulder, now riding through the air hitched to a man or boy’s belt buckle, taking measurements, marking patterns, sawing and hammering and filing the wood. And so skilled and quick were the elves, that no matter how far and wide and fast Mr. Him and Mr. Hum took their two sons exploring the vast breadth of the world, the men and their sons could always walk through the doorways, head high, shoulders back–a perfect fit. There was no place they could not go.

It seemed a near-perfect world . . . except for the blankness on the walls.

Then one day, something happened (it always does), to shatter the serenity, that sense of happily ever after that all fairytales have at the end, which has to be shattered before a new fairytale can begin.

This time it was not a big bad wolf, or a king dressed in a poor man’s clothes, or even an evil witch with a wart on her nose and a poison apple hidden in the pocket of her cloak. It was a Girl. Just a girl. Perhaps a little pretty. Though who could be certain since Mr. Him and Mr. Hum and their two sons really didn’t know how to judge such things.

One day Mr. Hum and his son woke up and found the girl in their midst. Well, not really in their midst; sitting in a corner quietly, waiting to be noticed. They’d gone about their business, had their morning coffee, read the paper, put on their coats to go for a stroll, and nearly stepped through the man-shaped doorway before they noticed her. Who knew how long she’d been sitting there? 

But when they noticed, the quiet was over, perhaps for good!

Oh, the shouting! Oh, the surprise! It brought Mr. Him and his son running quick, as you might imagine. And then! Oh, the consternation! Oh, the recrimination! Of course the elves came running, too.

“Mr. Hum, what have you done? This is worse than the infamous picture-hanging incident!”

Mr. Hum professed his innocence–and he was, you know.

Nobody knew where this girl had come from. She hadn’t come through the man-shaped doorway, that was for certain. Perhaps it was magic of the glitter dust in the air and poof! sort.

The elves didn’t shout. They’re not the noisy sort. They leave that to their distant cousins, the dwarves. But they were puzzled right enough, and stood there scratching their heads, and some scratched their chins, and all wondered what they should do.

They all agreed: Mr. Him and Mr. Hum and their two sons and the elves (who were all men themselves) that it wouldn’t be right to cut a girl-sized hole into all the doorways that flowed through to the world. It wouldn’t be right, wouldn’t be proper, because . . . because . . . because . . . and finally they convinced themselves it just wouldn’t be safe.

“We must build her a room where she will be safe, where she can feel secure and protected, and special in this room of her own,” Mr. Him and Mr. Hum and their two sons and all the elves said together.

And so the elves built her a kitchen with a doorway just for her. Because she curved where men cornered, and she flowed where they jutted, and finally, because bits of her stuck out where bits just ought not to be. Where all the other doorways in the world were built for a man and his son, this was the only room in all the world with that unique-shaped entry. And while she couldn’t fit through their doorways, due to her odd-shaped bits, they couldn’t fit through hers, either. So that was fair, wasn’t it? 

When it was done, the girl went into the kitchen without ever saying a word.

“See, she likes it!” they all cried. And Mr. Him and Mr. Hum and their two sons and all the elves congratulated themselves on a clever idea and a job well done.

And when the girl returned a short time later with food and drink she had prepared, they sat down to a meal, certain all was right with the world. (And never once gave a thought that she might just have been very hungry and hadn’t intended to share with them at all.)

Things went on like this for awhile, with Mr. Him and Mr. Hum and their two sons exploring the doors that flowed through to the world, but always they returned to Mr. Hum’s house, three times a day, so that the girl might bring food from her kitchen for them.

They never noticed the girl eyeing the elves, as they built new doors or altered old ones.

They never noticed her reading certain books–who knew from what odd world or other planet girl-things came from? Who knew what sort of dusty, poofy magic happened among them?

They never knew what shows she watched on their television–beamed in from who knew what solar system–while they were away all day. What man could stand to watch those women’s shows anyway?

They never saw her steal a forgetful elf’s toolbox, when he left it sitting in a corner one day.

But they heard the ruckus and the clatter! Of hammers and saws, and joists and drills, and files and levels, and bevels and beads! And they clustered around that girl-shaped doorway, trying to see in, but they couldn’t tell what she was doing. The noise continued for three days and three nights–and not once did she stop to bring food out to them!

Then everything was quiet. They peeked into that girl-shaped doorway again, shushing the elves who were hollering at her to give back the stolen toolbox. In one corner was a vaguely humanoid figure made of wood. Smaller than a human ought to be. With curves where there ought to be corners, that flowed where it ought to jut, and bits that stuck out where bits just ought not to be.

They saw the girl sitting on the floor with a pencil and a pad of paper figuring an advanced mathematical formula that scrolled over pages and pages. She sat there three days and three nights figuring. Until at last she came up with a number. It was the number of Woman. 

Somehow, perhaps it was magic of the mathematical kind, she had figured out the equation for each type of woman that she had encountered in her books and on TV. There was an equation for the fairy princesses in the fairytales. There was an equation for all the evil witches and old hags. There was an equation for the good queens and bad queens and evil stepsisters. For kindly grandmothers and nosy neighbors. For servants and kitchen maids and slaves. For rocket scientists and nannies. Teachers and preachers and presidents. Nuns and bad girls with guns. For Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden. Mary, Rhoda, and quiet Georgette. For Mrs. Cleaver and Raggedy Ann. For Jeannie, a flying nun, and the identical cousins. For Barbie, Buffy, and Mrs. Beasley, Ginger, Mata Hari, Xena, and even Mary Ann. She factored all these equations together, then multiplied the sum by the square root of the total number of all the different types of women that could be in the world. Then she wrote this number down on a slip of paper.

From the doorway, the men saw her walk over to that vaguely humanoid figure she had built, open up the top of its head, drop that slip of paper in, and close the head up again.

Then the girl crossed her arms and waited.

     And waited.

          And waited.

By this time Mr. Him and Mr. Hum and their two sons and all the elves were quite bored, for they’d never had to wait for anything ever in the world. And so, tired of waiting, and convinced there was really nothing to see anyway–if the girl wanted to tinker in her own time that was fine, but she’d just better start putting out meals again, regular and on time, or there’d be trouble, just you wait and see!–they wandered off to do whatever it is that men did out beyond the doors that flowed through to the world.

But the girl had learned patience. The girl had learned to wait for things, sometimes a very, very, long time. Not once did she twitch or fidget or pace or sigh a deep sigh that wouldn’t this just please hurry up!  She sat waiting quietly.

     For three days.

          And three nights.

               And then, of course, something happened. 

The vaguely humanoid thing wasn’t vaguely or-noid at all, but a Woman. Neither Mr. Him nor Mr. Hum nor their two sons, nor even all the elves (being men themselves) could name or recognize it. But the girl named it. Named it Woman. And with that name gave the Woman all the talents and strengths and knowledge that the vast universe held. 

And the Woman opened her eyes. And she saw. Saw the way of this world with doors fit only for a man and his son. Saw the girl and all her potential locked away in this one room. 

The Woman stood up. She hugged the girl. (Something Mr. Him and Mr. Hum and their two sons had never done, on account of their fear that those odd-shaped bits might be a fungus that they could catch.)  And after that hug, that seemed to go on forever, the girl spoke for the very first time. And these were the words she said:

“I want to go through the doors that flow through to the world. I want to walk to the ends of the earth, and then come back again by a completely different route.”

The Woman said, “Yes.”

Mr. Him and Mr. Hum and their two sons and even all the elves (being men themselves)  would have said, “No.” And, “It isn’t safe.” And, “What’s wrong with this very special room we built you?” But they had stopped paying attention to the silly antics of the girl long ago, and so weren’t there to stop her.

And even though the girl and the Woman still had the set of stolen elves’ tools, and knew how to use them, they didn’t bother with astounding craftsmanship, or intricate carvings, or carefully beveled edges, or manly oak polished to a deep rich glow. They didn’t bother making doors that would only fit their peculiar shape and stop all others from passing through. The only tool they took from that box stolen from the careless elf was a sledgehammer. 

They broke down the man-shaped doors, first one and then the next, brushed aside the splinters, not much caring if they got pricked in the process, and the Woman and her daughter stepped through the wide-gaping hole, out into the world.

                                                             And that’s The End . . .

                                        . . . until the happily ever after gets shattered again.

__________

Note:  This story was first published in Daughter of Dangerous Dames, (Twilight Tales, 2000).

__________________________________________________

Tina L. Jens is the author of the award-winning novel The Blues Ain’t Nothin’: Tales of the Lonesome Blues Pub and has had more than 75 short stories published. In 2017, she received the Rubin Family Fellowship artist residency at Ragdale Foundation. Former editor of the Twilight Tales small press, she teaches the fantasy writing courses at Columbia College and advises the Myth-Ink student group for fantasy, horror, and science fiction creators. Tina occasionally blogs about writing at BlackGate.com and runs the monthly Gumbo Fiction Salon reading series at Galway Arms. Her recent publications include the poem “Lady Ella, She Don’t” in Ella @ 100, and a novelette called “The Patchwork Woman,” a retelling of the Bride of Frankenstein story, forthcoming in the anthology Gaslight Ghouls.

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No Code

 

(Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals).

No code and cremated.

Not only do I want to be left dead, but I want them to throw me in the fire to make sure. 

Burn me to a crisp, to ashes.

And you’d want the same, too, if you saw what I did. 

I saw a person come back to life. 

She was dead. Real dead. 

Eyes open. Pupils dilated. Skin pale. Nothing moving. No pulse. No respirations. 

And it wasn’t just for a few seconds. We’re talking minutes. Around twenty minutes.

But she was a code. Amazingly, Martin, a fellow CNA, had Vickie’s code status memorized. The RN, Robin, asked and he knew right away. 

Yep. She’s a full code, he said. 

Her next question: does anybody know CPR?

She had worked in a cardiac unit for fifteen years. 

She knew exactly what to do.

I stood there and didn’t move.

I don’t remember who grabbed the crash cart, but Amanda, a CNA whose mom is an EMT, took the ambu bag and began squeezing it. Martin started chest compressions. 

Hand over hand, arms locked, bouncing up and down, working his heart to restart hers.

When he got tired, Amanda took over.

She said a rib cracked, two, and then eventually three. 

I don’t know if I was in the room at that point, as I didn’t hear any.

But she said she could feel them breaking. And she heard them crack.

I had learned CPR in class, but I had never seen it done live before. If no one else had jumped into action, I would have done it, I think. But since Amanda and Martin were so proactive, I didn’t need to be. 

Later I would feel guilty, guilty that in the crucial moment, in the call to action, I was hesitant.

At least I didn’t panic. And I didn’t run. 

I stayed in the room and remained calm and there was a role for me.

Robin told me to clear the room for the EMTs. I moved the bedside tables and chairs into the hall. I pushed the other bed against the wall. 

Then she told me to run and get the stethoscope.

When the EMTs came, all three big, strong, heavy people, dressed in navy, they took over. 

It had been about twenty minutes now.

I thought for sure there was no chance. I didn’t know how long they would go on for before they gave up. 

To me, it looked like a corpse bouncing, or a mannequin.

How long do you beat a dead resident?

And then she started breathing. They got a pulse. 

She hadn’t regained consciousness. She was alive, technically, but in what capacity?

She would most certainly be brain damaged if not completely brain dead. 

I wondered what kind of activity, if any, was still going on in her head. 

A spark here, a quiver there, a childhood memory from the sixties.

How much of Vickie was still left?

Amanda and Martin were heroes, as far as I was concerned.

They had saved her life. 

They were champs. 

They jumped right in without hesitation and started doing CPR. 

I made sure to tell everyone who would listen. 

Together, they were voted employees of the month.

Neither of them had ever done something like that before. They had never done chest compressions on a live person. 

Nobody thought she was coming back, but she did. 

We held hands. Martin said a prayer. Everybody cried except me. I don’t know why.

But I made sure to say, later, after things had settled down, with no uncertainty, I want to be a no code. If I’m ever that dead, and she was fucking dead, man, don’t bring me back. Leave me dead. Let me go.

The broken ribs would suck. The pain would probably be horrible. But it wasn’t that. It was you don’t really come back from that, and if you do, in what kind of state? 

Imagining myself at varying degrees of brain dead was a terrible thing: lying in bed, drooling, hooked up to a ventilator. 

The gray area of what it means to be alive.

How much would still be me?

No thoughts. No memories. 

Maybe some flashes of dreams.

I didn’t want to think.

And then I wanted to be burned just to make sure. 

To make sure there was absolutely no brain activity.

No sparks of life. 

No low-level consciousness. 

Just ashes. 

It was the same fear that inspired the grave bells, taphophobia, the fear of being buried alive. 

Pull the string. Ring, ring, ring.

“Saved by the bell.”

I told my wife I wanted “No Code” tattooed on my chest. 

She said EMTs, like employers, like the elderly, don’t respect tattoos. 

“What?” I said. That’s ridiculous.

I know. I know. 

I might do it anyway and campaign to get the rules changed. 

God forbid, but when the EMTs cut my shirt open, I want them to get a definite message. 

DO NOT REVIVE.

DO NOT SQUEEZE AIR INTO ME.

DO NOT POUND MY CHEST.

DO NOT BRING ME BACK FROM THE DEAD.

If there’s nothing left, there’s nothing left. 

What font would be best?

Usually I prefer cursive but, in this situation, I don’t think that would be ideal. 

We’re not going for finesse, for pretty.

It should be something big, something bold, something that screams.

Clarity and emphasis are key.

NO CODE doesn’t work.

Neither does No Code.

Too fancy.

What about bold?

NO CODE.

There. That’s it. 

Thick, black emphasis. 

NO CODE right over the breastbone.

Let me lie.

Leave me be.

Let whatever happens next happen to me.

She was fuckin’ dead, man.

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K. Uwe Dunn is a certified nurse aide who lives in central Pennsylvania with his wife, Isabella. He has a bachelor’s degree in English literature, a master’s in painting, and is fluent in the German language. His work has been featured in several literary journals and magazines, including The Northern Virginia Review, and he has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize by both Kestrel: A Journal of Literature and Art and The Petigru Review.