‘The Retreat’

Lindsay Liang

The Retreat

“Pay attention to each part of your body in turn…do you feel any tension? Focus on the area, take a deep breath…then, let it go.”

Appu Master strolled from one person to the next, correcting their posture, nudging them to straighten their spine. As he approached Annie, she tried to shrink into the anonymity of the group, but he wouldn’t let her off that easily.

“What’s bothering you, Annie?”

Annie was too embarrassed to reply. Appu master, the Yoga teacher, was not a disciplinarian; more a kindly uncle worried about your welfare. He was eager to make sure everyone got most out of the retreat that addressed the problems of both body and mind; a judicious mix of yoga and vipassana accompanied by a cleansing, homely diet.

He’d knock at the cottage doors at five to make sure you woke up well in time for pranayama underneath the lime tree which spread its luxurious foliage beside the lotus pond. Here they spread out mats on the dew laden grass. As the session progressed, the sky would brighten over the Western Ghats, the outlines of the mountains coming into view. There was one that looked like a falcon’s shoulders, its beak pointing to the sky. She had made a mental note to find out what the locals called it. But the practice of silence that is part of vipassana meant there was no time for chit-chat.

They had a set routine for most of the day: pranayama and yoga before breakfast, followed by Gita or bible classes, or for those more secularly inclined, volunteering at the resort gardens. And after lunch, perhaps unwisely, guided meditation. Around four in the afternoon was the only time they were free to do whatever they wanted. 

It was the time when she caught up with the odd WhatsApp message from Ashok. Timmy was getting on fine. Yes, he was taking him for walks, and no, there was no need to take him to the vet. And then, the children, he added in a tiny footnote…they loved Timmy. When she did not reply, he hastened to assure her they’d be gone in three days’ time. Well before she returned.

“What’s bothering you, Annie?”

Appu master was now standing beside her, bending over to adjust her posture. His white Tagore beard cascaded down to his midriff. His dark eyes gleamed like the seeds of the custard apples they were served with herbal tea every afternoon. A cocktail of emotions welled up within her; anger, sadness, a sense of betrayal that Ashok hadn’t told her about the children. She held herself together with difficulty. If Timmy had been here, he would have sensed her mood and given her cheek a consoling lick. 

“Everything ok with the food?” Appu Master asked. 

A flash of irritation, immediately followed by guilt. Appu Master had gone out of the way to make her comfortable. The previous day he had shown her his extensive collection of books. She was surprised by the breadth and range of his tastes. He was one of those people who could comfortably switch from Ancient history to the latest developments in Neuroscience without pausing for breath. 

“It is grand,” she lied, dreading the lunchtime gruel for the fourth day in a row. Eight more to go. But this is what she signed up for, wasn’t it? To get away from it all: a PhD that seemed to be floundering, the imminent arrival of a couple of brats she had no inkling existed until a month ago. 

It was summer in England. She had been looking forward to the long days to catch up on her thesis. And the coastal walks, perhaps a concert or two at Royal Albert hall, just the two of them. So when Ashok had sprung the surprise, she had refused point blank to play nanny to the kids the rest of the summer. His problem, not hers.

It was approaching lunchtime. As she stepped out of her cottage, a smell of cashews and onions being roasted in ghee wafted across from the next compound. The rich aroma reminded her of the biryani their cook, Elsie, used to pack in her lunchbox. In turn, it brought back memories of her daily walk to school, hand in hand with her childhood friend Nancy. They walked through the cobbled streets of Fort Kochi, where spice merchants were setting out their wares. If the big clock at St. Xavier’s was chiming eight, they knew they had time to take a few turns on the see saw before the school bell rang.

She loved spicy food, but since it made Ashok’s eyes water, she turned to more bland curries. Soon after he had told her about the children, however, she threw extra spice into his favourite paneer tikka. And as his tongue lolled and his breath came in gasps, just like Timmy, she had announced with grim satisfaction her solo trip to an Ayurvedic retreat in Kerala.

The watchman looked disapprovingly as she stepped out into the street. Retreat attendees were discouraged from leaving the resort. But they were adults after all and couldn’t be held against their will. At worst she’d get that disappointed look from Appu Master, which made you feel you hadn’t lived up to his expectations. 

Across the street was a single storey house set back a little from the road, set amidst coconut trees. Through the open gate, Annie could see the soot-blackened walls and a thatched roof extension on the side where an old woman sat in front of a firewood stove. She was stirring the contents of a mud pot with an iron ladle, from which steam billowed. She was dressed in a lungi, a patterned cloth wrapped around the waist. An old towel was thrown over her blouse. Beside her was a stack of steel plates. School children were coming out in small groups from the Government LP school next door and gathering in her yard.

The old woman lifted the pot from the fire, holding either end with the towel. She doused the fire with a mug of water. It died with a hiss. Meanwhile, the children were forming a queue, each one picking up a plate as they moved forward. The old woman heaped it with the steaming biryani.

At the retreat, lunch was served between twelve thirty and one. Rice gruel, lentils and garden-grown vegetables, a diet meant to detoxify body and mind. A diet she had decided to put herself through soon after the quarrel with Ashok. When they had first met, he had said he was separated and waiting for the divorce papers to come through, but he had never mentioned the children. Her own views were very definitive. From the outset, she had made it clear that she did not want children. Much as they were romanticised, they stood in the way of life. Wasn’t Timmy good enough? So what else was Ashok hiding from her?

Annie was about to hurry back to the retreat, when the old woman beckoned her.

“Would you like some biryani?” She asked.

Her first instinct was to decline politely, but there was something so homely and inviting in the woman’s gesture that she couldn’t help walking in. She found herself queuing up with the children, who stared curiously at her. One of them passed her a plate and a spoon with a gap-toothed smile. Some who had finished eating were washing up at the tap that sprung from the ground a little distance from where the old woman was sitting. A couple of others were drying them with a clean cloth and stacking them back up beside her.

Annie had intended to restrict herself to a spoonful. She protested weakly as the old woman heaped much more than a spoonful. The rice was fluffy and finely cooked. Blended with green peas and carrots and sprinkled with the occasional clove, it was not just delicious, but also a visual treat. Under the old woman’s encouraging eye, she ended up wolfing it down.

“Janakiamma, can we pick some mangoes?” asked one of the kids.

Janakiamma. So that was her name. 

There was a large mango tree at the very back of the compound. It was early yet and most were unripe, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“Take as much as you want,” said Janakiamma, grinning. “And gather some for me too. I’ll pickle them for you next week.”

It was well past two when Annie sneaked back into the resort. The guided meditation session was already in progress. As she quietly spread out her mat and settled in her usual corner, no one seemed to notice. From the corner speakers came the gentle sounds of a Chaurasia’s flute playing at low volume.

Appu Master was giving his instructions in his low dulcet tones.

“Be here, now.”

Yoga she could manage, but meditation was hard. The moment she sat still, her bitterness would surface; towards Ashok’s career-obsessed first wife who had dumped the kids on him, towards the department, which, despite support from her tutor, had decided the subject she had taken up was too well trodden to merit a PhD, towards the canteen staff at the resort, who refused coffee after five. But now a feeling of warm contentment began to envelop her. The sounds of Chaurasia’s Raag Madhuvanti trickled in from the next room, aptly capturing the essence of the moment. Appu Master’s taste in music was faultless.

Back at St. Xavier, he was known as a disciplinarian. Being punctilious about attendance and assignments herself, it did not bother her too much. It was the critique of her essays she dreaded, almost as much as she loved his off-the-cuff quotations from Macbeth or the Meghadoota. But time seemed to have mellowed him. Nevertheless, she braced herself for a telling off.

“For the next twelve days, you have entrusted yourself to me,” he had said on the first day. “Can I treat you like school children?” 

But that telling off did not come. Over the next few days, she found a way of discreetly slipping out in the evenings. Retreat attendees sometimes went to town at that time for the odd essential – a specific brand of toothpaste or moisturiser or even a visit to the Shiva temple. There was no need really. The resort was well stocked. Nevertheless, there was an unspoken agreement that residents could use the time to take a short break from the daily routine. You had to sign out at the gate, though, and sign in when you returned. But if she nipped out quickly, she could dash to Janakiamma’s place, where she would be waiting with the afternoon’s biryani, wrapped first in a banana leaf and then in a newspaper, secured with a rubber band.

Between twelve and two in the afternoon, Janakiamma cooked the biryani and served anyone who came; the orphan children who went to the government school nearby; rubber plantation workers who came down from the hills after the morning’s tapping, which started before dawn; occasionally clerks from the Panchayat office in town. She refused to take payment for it.

Local people brought her an endless supply of rice, vegetables, ghee and spices. In the rainy season, they mended her roof. The government doctor, a portly man perpetually out of breath, came every week on his scooter to check her heart.

“My heart is alright,” she dismissed him with a laugh, “it is yours you need to worry about.”

Of course, she would not let him go without a parcel of biryani.

It was the last day of the retreat. They were in Appu Master’s study, talking about the St. Xavier’s days. Behind him, on the wall was a large tapestry of Buddha. On either side, books reached up to the walls. Through the window, she could see a taxi pulling up. The driver opened the boot and some of the retreat attendees piled their backpacks into it.

“So whatever happened to your friend Nancy?” asked Appu Master.

“Oh, the usual, trajectory,” she said, unable to hide the disdain in her voice, “married, with three kids, whom she cannot stop gushing about on Facebook.”

A long time ago they had made a pact that they would put their careers ahead of  marriage and families. Too many young women they knew were getting distracted by demands from the family and not living up to their potential. In the third year of Nancy’s medical college, however, her father passed away. Unable to continue her degree, she had chosen to marry a Gulf businessman eight years older than her.

It was getting late. As is usual in these parts, the darkness descended suddenly. A swarm of fireflies appeared from nowhere to invade the room. Appu Master opened the windows and switched on the outdoor lights. Soon they were swirling about at the entrance, throwing themselves at the lights and dropping dead. They lived incredibly short lives.

“How pointless!” Annie said vehemently, “all that frenetic activity just to bring forth another swarm and repeat the cycle? I wonder what runs through their minds…if they have any at all.”

The faded light shrouded Appu Master’s face. It was hard to read his expression.

“It’s a matter of perspective isn’t it?” Through the window the dark outlines of the Ghats were still visible. “From the point of view of those mountains our lives must seem equally brief and meaningless.”

She had to go. The taxi would come very early tomorrow to drop her to the airport. As she stepped out, Appu Master patted her shoulder. Not generally a demonstrative man, it was a rare gesture of affection and she was touched. Then a twinkle appeared in his eye.

“So you discovered Janakiamma’s biryani!”

“And l thought l had got away with it,” she exclaimed in embarrassment.

“My spies are everywhere,” he said with a laugh, “I must watch out or she’ll put me out of business!”

Back in London, Ashok was waiting with a bunch of chrysanthemums at the front door. He had a worried look. It was late summer and despite her ten hour flight, the sunlight was still pouring into the streets like a golden syrup. Through the open door came the excited cries of children.

“A couple of days more,” he said apologetically, “apparently Danielle has been delayed in California.”

Two young faces peered at her from behind Ashok with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Indira and Dorothy. Both had Ashok’s round protruding eyes. She considered them for a moment. They reminded her of Nancy and herself.

“Annie,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Annie, might we…” Dottie’s hesitant voice trailed off.

“…pick some apples from your garden?” Indira completed the question.

“Of course,” Annie smiled brightly, “As many as you like.”

**********

Rama Varma is an IT professional by day and a writer the rest of the time, he finished his Masters in Creative Writing from Oxford in 2015 and subsequently won the KillingIt prize for his crime novel, The Banana Leaf Murder from Harper. These days he is working on his second novel and also writes the occasional short story. His stories have been published in the Obelus Journal (Transformation Manager) and the HOW blog (Mr. Moncieuf goes to town). He lives in the UK and has two boisterous boys.

‘A Three-Dollar Cup of Coffee’

Anosh Aibara is a passionate writer, photographer, filmmaker and theatre professional based in Mumbai, India. His work has been published in several visual and literary art journals and his latest short film Pigeons, was an official selection at the Message to Man International Film Festival, in St. Petersburg, Russia.

A Three-Dollar Cup of Coffee

     Spencer Bigelow, Spence to those who knew the fifty-two-year old rancher (and most everyone in Dos Pesos knew him…all too well), sat alone in the booth in the far corner of the La Sombra Café. He wasn’t all that eager to be so far away from everyone. Not at all. Spence was gregarious by nature. It just so happened that, thanks to his wife’s sage advice, he’d be wise today to stay clear of others in the café. It was a shame. Spence liked most folks. He. in no way, was going out of his way to be standoffish. Far from it. On this particular day, he just had a load on his mind, what with his daughter’s troubles and the fence near the south gate of his property in need of repair. Then there was Miss Luanne’s admonition that since he was dressed so shabbily he’d be wise to avoid being seen by anyone who might recognize him as her husband. She was only kidding, he hoped.

     The rancher’s dusty, scuffed ropers tapped to the beat of an old Johnny Bush song on the jukebox against the far wall of the room, a straight-forward two-stepping tearjerker he could get the gist of (some poor sap licking his wounds after being jilted by an evil Jezebel) but, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall the title. It was a tune that he’d heard a thousand times, years ago, a lively ditty that he liked at the time and used to dance to with Miss Luanne back in their dancing days, but for some reason the name of the dad burn song just wouldn’t pop into his mind.

     I must be gettin’ old, thought Spence. Me and Luanne loved that dang song. Heck, it was a favorite. By God, we’ve got to come into town more often, and, what the hell, kick up our heels at the Green Tree Bar and Grill like we used to. I can’t see why we ain’t done so in so long, not since before Tamantha was born. We ain’t gettin’ no younger, that’s for sure, and so, by golly, we’re gonna do it, whether Miss Luanne likes it or not, just as soon as we get that daughter of ours squared away. 

     Spence’s weathered and worn denim jacket, a constant embarrassment to his wife, was more than just a little too warm inside the local hangout, about the only place in town to get a halfway decent plate of Mexican food, but the shirt he had on under the jacket, a plaid flannel work shirt that he’d yanked out of the dirty clothes hamper in his bedroom that morning, much to Miss Luanne’s disgust, had a tear in the left elbow as well as an unsightly oil stain across the shoulder. The tattered jacket would have to do for now; he just had to stay out of sight—Luanne’s orders. She didn’t want any husband of hers looking like some kind of a homeless vagabond. It was her idea, he mumbled, that I sit in the damn corner where no one would get a good look at me…or close enough to get a whiff of me.  

     I feel like a goddamned fool, mumbled Spence to no one but himself. Three bucks for a damned cup of coffee. Holy moly. If Pop knew that folks, hell, folks right here in Dos Pesos, Texas, would ever be willin’ to shell out that kind of dough for a lousy cup of coffee he’d sit right up in his coffin and cuss the lot of ‘em. Luckily, the old man kicked off before he had to witness the day when his fellow townsfolk would be so damned foolhardy to fork over hard-earned money just to mosey around in here and idle their afternoons away. Hell, just take a look around this place. More than a dozen people, white folks and Mexicans alike, at two in the dadgum afternoon, lollygaggin’, as if they ain’t got nothin’ better to do with their time. Things didn’t used to be this way. No siree Bob. People used to have a helluva lot more gumption. They used to work for a livin’. 

     And, for Christ’s sake, who am I to bitch and moan about the folly of others? There was that time last year in that Starbucks over there in San Antonio. Spence chuckled then shook his head. My God, Pop wouldn’t believe it if he was to get an eyeful of me in a place like that. Who would’ve guessed that there could be so many nitwits naive enough to get themselves hornswoggled in some snazzy gyp joint where you get a goddamned half-warm cup of coffee in a flimsy paper cup, and for no more than a mere fortune? Yet, that damned fancy-schmancy coffee shop was packed, I’ve got to admit it. More folks than you could shake a stick at shellin’ out perfectly good money hand over fist just to be seen with a bunch of other gomers willin’ to make total suckers of themselves. But, what the hell, there I sat that day, big as life, drinkin’ some creamy godawful frothy concoction with the rest of ‘em, like there’d be no tomorrow, all because Miss Luanne had to give the place a try. “We’re here in the city,” she ‘d said. “We might as well give it a try. Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy. Have a little fun for a change.” Shoot, she brews up a hell of a lot better coffee at home, better than this piss in this damn place. I swear, folks these days, most of ‘em at least, ain’t got the good sense they were born with. I’d bet the good lord wishes that he could take back the brains he handed out to ‘em, make ‘em all Baptists or, hell, one of those holy rollers that you see prayin’ and ‘a beggin’ for money on TV. 

     It wasn’t the rancher’s idea to come into town that day. He had more than his share of work to do. Some redneck moron—more than likely one of the juiced-up oil-field roughnecks down from Odessa—had knocked over two metal fenceposts on his property, most likely showin’ off for some gals with their sixty-thousand-dollar (hell, maybe more than that) Jeep or pickup or whatever. Yet Luanne, always one to do things ever so right, never one to settle with just so-so, needed to pick up a few items at the Good Luck Grocery. Tonight, their daughter, Tamantha, their only child, along with “Brad”, her latest boyfriend, some hotshot from San Angelo, were coming to dinner. Big deal, grunted the rancher. He’s probably a dandy of some sort. Tam’s always gone for that kind, up until Anthony came long. We never should’ve sent that girl off to SMU. They put too many highfalutin notions into her noggin. Now, Dos Pesos seems like small potatoes to the likes of her. And, geez, she seems like some kinda weirdo to the folks right here in Dos Pesos, even those who knew her back when she was no more than a pigtailed tomboy on the playground at Milam Elementary. 

     What the hell, thought Spence, if Tamantha hadn’t gone and divorced Anthony or, hell, married that son of a gun in the first place, we wouldn’t have to go through this damned tomfool charade of tryin’ to put on airs so’s that we can impress the son of some nose-in-the-air banker up there in San Angelo. It’s not like that hellhole of a town is some hoity toity Dallas or Austin or, hell, even Ft. Worth. It’s San Angelo, for heaven’s sake. It ain’t that big of a deal. And, besides, Tam’s the one who thought she knew it all. She married Anthony. No one forced her. Now she doesn’t want us to spill the beans about her first marriage…like Anthony never existed.  

     “A refill, Mr. Bigelow?” Lupe, the hazel-eyed, thin-as-a-rail waitress poured a stream of the dark brown elixir into his ceramic mug.

     “Not if you’re gonna charge me another three dollars for it,” said Spence. “I ain’t made of money, you know.”

     “For you, Mr. Bigelow, the refill’s on the house.”

    Cute gal, thought Spence as he watched her narrow behind slalom through the maze of tables and chairs. Spunky and plenty smart. Put a little meat on those bones and she wouldn’t be half bad. And those eyes. Not many Mexican girls have got eyes like those. She knows damn well that I’m gonna leave her a five-dollar tip. She ain’t dumb. She knows how to get on my good side. All she has to do is smile and I’m a goner.

     The rancher rapped his fingers on the smudged, sticky oak tabletop. Another song, one of those confounded four-four songs about some gal in tight jeans getting it on with some cowboy in the back of a pickup, played from the juke box. Hell, I hate all of these modern shit-kickin’ songs, muttered Spence. They’re all the same, a bottle of beer, a good dog and a woman pantin’ over some old boy like he’s some kinda stud. And all of ‘em sung by some pretty boy in torn jeans and a John Deere baseball cap. Hell, I got plenty of old jeans and the Lord knows I’ve got the cap. That don’t make me no heartthrob. Those smart alecks ain’t nothin’ compared to Hank Williams or Ernest Tubb. Or even Willie or Waylon.

     Spence looked up and spotted an old friend, Sheriff Kyle Reed, as he lumbered through the double doors of the café like Matt Dillon coming into the Long Branch to pay Kitty a visit. The pudgy man looked around the room, caught Spence’s eye, nodded, then started toward the rancher.

     “Miss Luanne told me I’d find you in here,” said the sheriff. He plopped down across from Spence and grunted. “She’s still shopping over there at the Good Luck Grocery. I hope the commodity markets are up. You’re gonna need ‘em to be with all that she’s got in that basket of hers.” He looked around the room and snorted. “What’re you drinking, Spence?”

     “What does it look like? A goddamned mint julep? I’m havin’ myself a damned three-dollar cup of no-good bitter coffee.”

     Kyle grinned, raised his forefinger to the waitress then nodded. She nodded back. He winked at Spence then waited for Lupe to bring his own mug of coffee.

     Both men wistfully watched Lupe, a pot of coffee in one hand, a dingy dish cloth in the other, wriggle off toward the kitchen with a little extra motion in her backfield, more than likely for the sheriff’s benefit. Certainly not for Spence’s.      

     Hell, thought the rancher, this fella must spend half his life in here while the deputies do all the work. Oglin’ the waitresses and scarfin’ down enchiladas. What a life. What’s Contreras County payin’ Kyle? And to do what, drink coffee, flirt with the waitresses and stay out of the way? Hell, any fool could do that.

     “Spence,” said the sheriff, “it’s about Anthony.”

     The rancher put down his mug with a thud. “What about Anthony?”

     “Well, he’s got hisself into a peck of trouble. It seems he’s gone and got himself beaten up in some bar up there in Ft. Stockton” The sheriff paused. “Then, that hardnose sheriff up there in Pecos County arrested Anthony, even though, from the sound of things, he got the worst of it in the fight. I know that sheriff. He’s no one to mess with.” 

     “That’s not like Anthony,” said the rancher. “He’s goddamned different, that’s for sure. And a bit of an obnoxious bragger, but, what the heck, he’s a decent enough fella. He ain’t no fighter.”

     “That may be, but as it turns out, he’s the one that done that damage to your fence. He’s admitted to the sheriff up there that he’s the one that did it. Don’t ask me why he’d spout off about something like that. It sounds like he’s proud of it. Seems he’s got some sort of a grudge against you.”

     “Against me? Hell, Tam’s the one that divorced him. All I did was pay for that shyster lawyer. Considerin’ everything, I was pretty damned decent to that kid.”

     Kyle Reed chuckled. “Yeah, I heard about that. Must’ve set you back a pretty penny.”

     Spence huffed. “God damn it, I liked Anthony. Even after the shit hit the fan and we discovered he wasn’t what he claimed to be. Tam’s the one that woke up one day and realized she’d made a big mistake. She divorced his ass. Not me.” He took a deep breath. “Hell, Miss Luanne and me had to swallow a hell of lot of pride just ‘cause that girl got some fool notion in that head of hers that she wanted to get herself married to someone like Anthony.”  

     “Like him or not, he’s got himself into a jam up there.” The sheriff nodded slowly. “And to top it all off, he’s gone and told the bondsman that you’d be willing to put up the money to get him out of jail.” He laughed. “The bail’s ten-thousand dollars, but the bond would cost you a thousand.”

     Spence winced. “A thousand dollars? Hell, that’d buy more than a cup or two of this lousy coffee. Or it might even come close to coverin’ my wife’s bill over there at that grocery store.” 

     He sighed heavily. “Did Miss Luanne tell you that Tam’s bringin’ home a new boyfriend tonight?”

     “That’s good, ain’t it?”

     “Maybe. Hell, who’s to know these days? He’s from San Angelo. His old man’s some sort of a bigshot up there. A banker, no less. Brad’s the name. More than likely, Bradley. Bradley Pruitt.” The rancher squinted, then said, “At least he’s no Anthony. That’s for damn sure.”

      “Tamantha must know what she’s doing. This time at least.” The sheriff sipped his coffee, made a sour face then gazed at a couple of Mexican women at a table against the window. He turned back to the rancher. “What should I tell the sheriff up there in Ft. Stockton?”

     “Tell him it ain’t none of my business. Anthony ain’t no relation to me. Not no more.”

     Kyle Reed bit at his lip. “Spence, do you know those two women sittin’ over there?”

     The rancher glanced at the women. “Nope, never seen ‘em before. Why? You got the hots for ‘em?”

     “No.” The sheriff laughed. “One of them’s Mrs. Garza. Her son, Sammy’s the running back over at Travis High, the one that’s doin’ so good this year. They’re good people, the Garzas.”

     “Since Tam graduated I ain’t paid all that much attention to the team. They’re good, you say?”

      “Sammy’s good. The team’s okay, nothing to bet the farm on.”

     Spence studied the two women. Finally, he asked, “How does one go about bailin’ someone out of jail? Would I have to drive all the way up there to Ft. Stockton?”

     “I’m afraid so,” said the sheriff. He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. “Here’s the address to that bondsman. I jotted it down for you. He’ll handle posting the bail. All you’ll need do is hand him a check.”

     “I can’t go tonight. Shoot, Luanne would have a fit if I missed her fancy supper. And Tam would never forgive me if I wasn’t there to meet the new Mr. Wonderful.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll drive up there tomorrow. But listen, Kyle, you can’t never tell Luanne that I’m doin’ this. And for God’s sake, don’t let Tam find out about this.”

     “I’ll let that sheriff know that you’re comin’. It might do Anthony some good to stew in his juices a night or two. But, someone like Anthony could have a pretty rough time of it in jail in that town.”

     The two sat silent. Both watched the two women at the table, the mother of a football star and her friend.

     “I suppose you’re expectin’ me to pay for your coffee,” said Spence.

     The sheriff shook his head. “Not at all. Mine’s free.” He grinned. “But I don’t want to hear that you sailed out of here without paying for yours. I don’t think Anthony’s going to bail you out if I have to take you in for stiffing the waitress on your bill.”

     “Anthony,” Spence grimaced. “Hell, that kid’s okay. He’s just a little screwed up in his head. He’d have to be. His life ain’t been easy. He grew up in a bunch of damned foster homes. Then he came up with that cock and bull story about goin’ to Texas Tech.” He shook his head. “I’ll get him to fix that doggone fence. That should put us even. Or close to it. After all, I’m the one who hired that know-it-all lawyer that put the screws to him. I feel like I owe him somethin’. Don’t you think so?”

     The sheriff stood, then grinned. “I don’t know, Spence. That’s your business. Not mine.”

     “What do you think?” asked Spence. “Do you suppose that some slicker named Brad could ever help me run a ranch in my old age?”

     The sheriff cocked his head, looked over at the two women then said, “I wouldn’t know. But I doubt it. His old man being a banker and all. But, what the heck, you gave Anthony a go at it. You might as well give old Brad a try.” He laughed. “Nah, forget that. I’d say that you’d be better off with Tamantha running the place. She was raised around here. She’d at least have some idea as to what she was doing.”

     The rancher nodded. “I hope Anthony’s all right up there. He’s a good kid, just a bit of a pain in the butt.”

     Kyle Reed shrugged then lowered his bulk back into the booth. “Spence, can I ask you a question?”

     “Suit yourself. But if I don’t give you an answer you got nothin’ to gripe about.”

     The sheriff blinked, looked around the room, leaned forward then whispered, “What did you think when Tamantha brought Anthony home?” He folded his hands into a knot on the table. “Did it bother you and Miss Luanne?”

    Spence chuckled. “When she brought him home? Yeah, it caught us off guard. I’d be lyin’ if I said otherwise. We weren’t expectin’ nothin’ like that.” He coughed. “After all, Miss Luanne grew up in Baton Rouge. She couldn’t wrap her mind around somethin’ like that, the thought of our daughter bein’ with a black man. But, to her credit, she did, eventually. We both thought it was just one of those things young people do to show how liberated they are. But when Tamantha up and married Anthony…after knowing him only a month or so…that’s when we began to worry. Not because Anthony was what he was, but because she’d just met him.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve got to remember that Tamantha thought he had some high-tech degree in engineering. Hell, we all thought so. We had no reason to doubt him. And she’d told him that her old man was a rich rancher.”

     “But you are a rancher.”

     “Not a rich one.”

     Kyle Reed shook his head. “Hell, richer than most everyone else in Contreras County.”

     “That ain’t sayin’ much.” The rancher grinned. “So, they each bullshitted the other. Hell, he wasn’t no engineer. That son of a bitch had only gone to college for one year. A damned community college in Austin. Flunked out. And besides, we ain’t rich. Far from it. Anyway, they bamboozled each other. Once Tamantha found out that Anthony didn’t have no job and planned to live out on the ranch with us and once he discovered that our place ain’t no Southfork Ranch and I ain’t no J. R. Ewing they each come to realize they’d been taken for a ride by the other.”

     “But you took Anthony in?”

     “Didn’t take him in. He moved in. But Anthony ain’t so bad. I’ve seen worse. And, I guess Tam’s all right, just a little headstrong...and spoiled.” Spence paused. “Now she wants us to welcome some fella from San Angelo with open arms. And we’re not supposed to say a word about Anthony. But I’ll bet you beer to nuts that Miss Luanne won’t go along with none of that. I can count on that woman to let the cat out of the bag no matter what. She can’t keep her mouth shut about nothin’. Don’t get me wrong, Luanne ain’t mean or nothin’. She just won’t put up with any more foolishness. She’s the one that set Anthony straight about Tam not being a rich gal. And she gave Tamantha more than an earful about the difficulties of the situation she was in.”

     The sheriff again stood. “What are you going to do, Spence? About Anthony?”

    “I’ll see to it that he gets out of that jail. Then that rascal’s gonna fix my damned fence. After that, it ain’t none of my concern.” Spence smiled broadly. “That young man, no matter what he’s done, don’t belong in no jail.” He laughed. “It’s the new owner of this here café that should be in jail. Three dollars for a lousy cup of coffee. Jesus Christ.”

     The sheriff gone, Spencer’s ulcer burning like a piece of coal, he stood then placed a ten-dollar bill on the table. He trudged toward the door but stopped and stood over the two women at the table by the window.

     “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but the sheriff tells me that one of you has got a son that’s a pretty fair football player.”

     Both women looked up, blinked then looked from one to the other. The younger woman, no more than thirty-five years old smiled then said, “My son, Sammy, he plays football.”

     Spence nodded. “Well, I hear he’s mighty good. You should be proud. My daughter went to Travis High. She was a cheerleader back in her day.” He shuffled his feet. He wished that he hadn’t stopped. He’d forgotten that he looked like somethin’ the cat dragged in. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ll try to make it to one of his games. Is he thinkin’ about college?”

     “Angelo State,” said the mother. “If he can get a scholarship to play football.”

     “That’d be good.” Spencer looked down at his boots. Holy cow, to these two ladies I must look like some kinda bum, he thought. Then he said, “If he ever needs a little money to help him get there, tell him that I might be able to help him out. He’d have to work for it. A part-time job on my ranch. It wouldn’t be no free lunch.”

     “I’ll tell Sammy.” The woman smiled.

     “That’d be good.” Spence sighed. “I’d best get runnin’ and pick up my wife. She’s grocery shoppin’ across the street. Then I’ve got to take her home, then drive seventy miles to take care of some business in Ft. Stockton, then seventy miles back here before supper. We’re havin’ company tonight.” He took two steps.

     “Thank you, Mr. Bigelow.”

     “You’re more than welcome,” he said. “Tell your son to come see me. I mean it. We’ll work somethin’ out.” He grinned, then he asked, “You ladies act like you know me?”

     The other woman nodded, then said, “Everyone in Dos Pesos knows you, Mr. Bigelow. And your wife. And your daughter.”

David Larsen is a writer who lives in El Paso, Texas. His stories and poems have been published in numerous literary journals and magazines including Cholla Needles, The Heartland Review, Floyd County Moonshine, The Mantelpiece, Oakwood, Nude Bruce Review, Canyon Voices, Change Seven, Literary Heist, Coneflower Café, The Raven Review, Voices, Sand Canyon Review, The Rush, El Portal, Bright Flash Literary Review and October Hill Magazine.

‘What can’t be explained’, ‘Notes on online therapy’ & ‘Unraveling’

Lindsay Liang

What can’t be explained

Scientists have yet to pinpoint the fault that rattled much 

of the Northeast. It left no surface rupture. (NBC News)

Colors can be easily explained,

but not why I love black ink

and feel neutral towards blue.

And Why love? Don’t tell me

it’s biochemistry or a construct

of society—there’s something 

more—an unexpected whistling 

like grass in a breeze 

or the knock of stone on stone

when the tide comes in.

I know truth is music, by instrument

or accident, an arising of this earth.

I know space is not a vacuum

but I doubt its rhythm

would make me tap my toes.

My grandparents’ cellar smelled 

of oil tank and home-made wine.

The walls were fieldstone 

patched with fresh cement.

Rubber treads disintegrated

on the creaking stairs.

It was like entering a catacomb

Returning to the light, I’d smell 

coffee percolating in a glass pot

and hear the chair beside the stove

rock as if it wasn’t empty.

Notes on online therapy

Her screen tilts so I see
the exposed ceiling
vague shapes of pipes
and ducts
white on white on gray
There must be more
Her words lose themselves
in something that feels
substantial

I am a postage stamp
missing the scallop of serration
glued to the lower right-hand
corner of the screen
So I won’t focus on myself?
Or isn’t that the point?

We tend to speak at the same time
perhaps because we are in synch
Perhaps because we aren’t.
Only half a mile apart
yet tinny waves collide
the pattern of disturbance

I take notes as quickly
as I can which are
barely legible:
Take a long time
before you answer
and we only have
half an hour

At my back
swims an ocean
before me light softening
sheer curtains

She smiles off-kilter
Her voice reverberates
caught in my speaker
or her microphone:

How did that make you feel?

Unraveling

I was her last hope. I was her only hope. I was living on instant coffee and Marlboro Lights and the not-for-individual-sale packets of Milano cookies I stole from the snack cupboard at my night job. 

I worked two jobs. I worked three jobs. I worked uptown and downtown. I worked in the bedroom of my leaky roof apartment. I owned a hammer but could not find it.

She brought a Canadian whiskey box of books. She brought spiral notebooks half-filled with torn out pages. She brought notecards with pink emphasis. She brought an illustrated volume of Jung so large it never fit anywhere. It was hopeless without me.

My shingles were loose, but I had a stained glass window and a backyard. I planted zinnias and tomatoes with a fork and spoon. Leggy and fragile, they held their seed leaves. One morning, when I awoke, everything was gone. Her writing was illegible. Her books were duplicates of mine. The Crown Royal box was perfect for a move.

I was a temporary person. I was a hopeless person. I must have been drinking beer or else  I would have disappeared. My cat ran away. My cat came back. I collected shreds of tobacco but no shreds of hope.

She gave me everything. I was her only hope. I was not a magician but around me, things disappeared. I never drank too much but always drank enough. The cat died of old age. Torn paper dampened and swelled.

Where did she come from? How did she know me? The facts have disappeared. Where did she go?

I carry her things from life to life, attic to basement, state to state. I continue to be famous for not being myself. The cardboard collapses. Paper edgings spiral in my heart. Where is my hammer? I am the person who can do anything. It is hopeless without me. 

Ellen White Rook is a poet, writer, and contemplative arts teacher living in southern Maine. She offers writing workshops and leads retreats that combine meditation, movement, and writing. Ellen holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Suspended, her first collection of poetry, was released by Cathexis Northwest Press in May 2023. Visit her website at ellenwhiterook.com.

‘The New Romantics’

Matthew McCain is an author and fine artist with 3 of his novels reaching the top #10 on Amazon Kindle Unlimited. His paintings can be found all around the world from London to Las Vegas with Bar Rescue’s Jon Tafer and Alice Cooper’s Teen Youth Rock Center in Phoenix, Arizona. He’s currently represented by the Bilotta Gallery in Florida.

The New Romantics

these new hearts of stone
this lonesome
everything
we share an intellect,
in our minds,
we would have been great, what with
what fresh hell,
what with wanting
to know us only

we can’t
we must dream
all it was was darkness strewn across an empty
superhighway
we used to be linked to one another
we used to tell secrets to the night
it couldn’t keep

so now it’s a finished work
called cruel blessing
now it’s an animatronic dream of us
whatever we say seems tethered
to the new romantic
to the frozen surface of the lake
what colors of winter
what absence of breath

or sour or some other flavor
of the new romantic
in downy robes, will always think of summer
how to be auctioned-off in a prize contest
how a little bit of a heart can be bitten off and chewed
as a reflection, as a reflection
of the times

S. A. Viau holds an MFA in poetry from Louisiana State University. He is the winner of the 2019 William Jay Smith Award for Poetry, judged by Douglas Kearney. His work has appeared in The Hong Kong Review of Books, The Colorado Review, HASH, New Delta Review, among others. He lives in Maryland with his family.

‘Across Daughette’s Meadow’, ‘Bluetick Evening’ & ‘Crow Song*’

Alfonso Keller-Casielles

Across Daughette’s Meadow

Up to my shins stepping gingerly over the grass,
Eyes half-consciously watching the terrain, my
Psyche on autopilot as it mostly is.

Behind me houses of the great and good
Fronting Pelham Road, with this field behind
Them, unguarded, my natural shortcut.

Another time there will be wildflowers and the
Occasional honeysuckle vine, each blossom
Waiting to have its golden drop sucked out.

Now all is dun-colored grass, brown leaves
On pecan trees. But I’m not affected. I’m
Unlikely to be diverted on my way

Toward sixth street, where wait brother
Dogs cats books magazines football. At
School I am engaged, obliged to think.

Yet now, moving through the bleak commons
I anticipate only the weave of
Familiar voices, texture of well-worn

Sensations, comforts of the small eternity
Fixed beneath this bubble of modernity.

Bluetick Evening

Through the patch of brush
To the back gate, nose under latch.
Toss back the head—on to commune with the
Children one street over.

Circulating the coldest nose, wagging with
Circumspect sympathy and wild-
Creature discretion, always on
Watch for stragglers, checking that the

Wolves who populate his mythology are nowhere near—
Yet even so he’ll sniff and
Snuff where the willynilly play of the child pack
Meets the circling foliage, full with its

Myriad odors. Tonight it chances that after
Many reads of the hedge he finds no
Scent of peril. When the children are
Called in, he turns, trots, and instantly appears—

By coonhound magic! at his own back door,
Commenting on his famished hunger and the evening
Chill—making strong music, and then with happy
Whines gulping down what the Goddess brings.

Crow Song*

An old feeling de novo, one
Simply implicit in life, but tumbling-
Trembling that it should once more
Take hold, not so much
Taking harsh because it’s too familiar—still
Thereby with a greater expectation

That it will endure.
November, and that same
Ol’ Raven lit upon Pallas’
Bust, voted 100 times (no less) the
Bird and likeness most likely to
Mirror mistrust. Maybe this time
It’ll stay: Perched, a fable in
Sable, on this dark plutonian shore,

Cawing its bad news
Evermore.

*Written after the 2024 elections.

Paul Pruitt is a law librarian by trade, an historian by training, and a writer by compulsion. He writes poetry in order to experience, over and over, the wonder of words colliding. His publications include poems in Literary Heist, In Parenthesis, Triggerfish Critical Review, The Dillydoun Review, and the Birmingham Arts Journal.

‘SILVER DAGGER’

Alfonso Keller-Casielles

SILVER DAGGER

My mother and I were very close. She was demonstrative and loving and often able to overlook  the stupid mistakes kids tend to make while growing up. She passed away more than a decade  ago at the age of 91. Sad as I felt, she had lived a good, long life.  

When I began college, I told her that I didn’t care about spending time with anyone but her. That  declaration seems so foreign to me, considering the amount of close friends who have stuck by  me for years. I wasn’t tested on that lack of self awareness until my good friend Brian was  downed by cancer. I called Mom on the landline (there were no cell phones back then), heaving  breathless and lying prostrate on the floor of my apartment, crying uncontrollably into the  mouthpiece as she consoled me.  

This was back in 1980. AIDS had not yet infiltrated our world. And though I did have other  close friends, Brian was whom I connected with on a level that helped me to understand what  unconditional friendship was.  

Admitted to Lenox Hill Hospital, Brian had seminoma: testicular cancer. This was among the  most common types of cancer affecting men under the age of 30. The word “cancer” scared the  crap out of me, and still does. The physicians removed the tumor-enlarged testicle, and replaced  it with a floating appendage made of teflon, allowing his scrotum to appear “normal.” In the  months leading up to the surgery, I remember showing up at his apartment before he and I would  go out for the evening, which was our tradition multiple times each week. We would listen to  dance music and talk while he was dressing to go out. One night when he was coming out of his  bathroom naked, I noticed his testicles looked unnaturally large. At the time, I thought it was  weird, but bluntly, I just believed he had huge balls.  

Simultaneously, Brian had a diagnosis that oddly ended up being fortuitous. He had a very  uncomfortable abscess that needed to be lanced, forcing him to seek medical attention. While  visiting the doctor for that procedure he thought, as long as he was there, he might as well show  the physician his enlarged scrotum. Brian was admitted to the hospital that same day. 

==== 

Brian and I had a very volatile relationship. We were never lovers. But back then, I’m sure I  claimed him as my best friend. I don’t like using that descriptive scale, since friendships hold a  different importance depending on the circumstances and time.  

I was 21 years old when Brian and I had an emotional falling out (it was the year that J.R. Ewing  got shot on the tv show, “Dallas.” If you’re of a certain age, you’ll know how wide spread that  television event was, not just in the United States, but throughout the world). Brian had gone to  bed with a boy he knew I had feelings for. I was completely caught off guard. And though I  acknowledge that this southerner had no interest in me beyond camaraderie, I felt that the “friend  code” meant that Brian should not be with someone for whom I lusted after. Pretending to be  mature, I told him if that amorous night was heading for a commitment in love, I’d come to  terms with it. But if this was solely about his getting laid, I’d never forgive him.  

They stayed together for a year. I don’t know what the reality is, but Brian told me that he stayed  with him to keep our friendship in tact. That seems very odd to me. Not necessarily an out and  out lie, but Brian was a strange man, so there may be a slice of the truth in that confession.  

I battled to keep my out-of-control feelings in check. Other friends told me it was obvious that I  was in love with Brian. I chose to accept that. Maybe, I thought, there was an unconscious part of  me that had surfaced in a jealous cloud due to Brian entering a serious relationship for the first  time since we’d known each other.  

Looking back, I can say with conviction that I was not in love with Brian. That would have been  an easy explanation. I admit I saw it as betrayal. And though I no longer consider myself to be an  envious man, back then I was wrecked when discovering that my closest friend was sleeping  with someone I hoped would want to be with me. Friendship can be as possessive as any  

romantic relationship. During the entire time Brian and I hung out, he went to bed with different  men night after night. Since I was looking for something completely different, for the most part,  his behavior didn’t affect me. I was searching to find “the one.” And as handsome as Brian was, I  

had not found myself attracted to him. Perhaps that was why his sexual patterns weren’t an  emotional threat.  

Concerning he and I in ways that mattered to me, I had Brian all to myself. Men of all types and  backgrounds would fuck him, often getting their hearts broken, wanting much more. I know,  from what he told me, that Brian was a passionate and romantic lover and most probably mislead  a good deal of these men to believe that he was aiming for something more substantial than a  night or two together.  

To quote a verse from a folk song as recorded by Joan Baez, “Silver Dagger:”  

“My daddy is a handsome devil 

He’s got a chain five miles long 

And on each link a heart does dangle 

Of another maid he’s loved and wronged”  

Replace “daddy” with friend and “maid” with man and you would be illustrating Brian’s sex life,  if described by me.  

==== 

As the years passed, he and I grew apart. I would still see Brian on certain occasions, but our  social lives went in different directions. We became more like distant relatives. 

The last time I saw Brian, his parents were visiting him. Though he hadn’t told me, he was  dying. From AIDS, not cancer. For months, he kept asking me to come to the apartment and take  his records, which frankly, I didn’t want. When I finally did visit him, he was skeletal and  looking decades older than his age. It was apparent he was wasting away. I later realized that a  great deal of the erratic conversations we had been having could be blamed on the disease  attacking his brain.  

==== 

The final scene was surreal, bordering on comical. The four of us sat around a coffee table in  Brian’s living room. His mother, Dot, was seated in an upholstered easy chair. His father sat  across from her in a high back kitchen chair, reading a newspaper. Brian was on his sofa and I  sat across from him, completing the circle. We were listening to disco music and I believe we  were all smoking cigarettes. Brian looked so fragile I thought he might break like delicate  porcelain. We talked as if nothing was wrong, which probably was a good call.  

==== 

Brian died just before his 42nd birthday.  

Early morning, on a Sunday in November, my phone rang. It was Brian’s mother. “May I speak with Della Reese?” Dot asked. 

Recognizing her voice I said, “Dot, it’s Andy.” 

She began to cry. “Brian has passed away,” Dot said.  

“I know Dot. I’m so sorry,” I responded. 

We talked for a while and cried together. Finally I asked, “Dot, why did you ask for Della Reese  when you called?” 

“I’m going through Brian’s Rolodex,” she said, “and I suppose he has you listed as Della Reese.” Though I knew the reason why, I asked, “And you didn’t find that bizarre?” “Not really,” she answered. “I just got off the phone with someone named Hedda Lettuce.” 

==== 

Weeks after his death, I met with Dot at Brian’s apartment. She gave me two of his belongings  to keep. One was a red bomber jacket, which, to this day, I still wear. The other was the ashtray  that had been planted on his coffee table. Painted metallic gold, shaped to resemble an angel’s  wing and permanently stained by black and grey cigarette ash. It now lives on my coffee table as  a permanent reminder of my friend.  

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 70 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America. Insta: @andrewsarewitz. Twitter/X: @asarewitz/twiter

‘On the Glitter Crescent’, ‘Leave the Geode’ & ‘Cotton Candy Fluffs’

Rollin Jewett’s varied past includes acting stints in The Bodyguard, Unsolved Mysteries, Miami Vice and others, penning Carmen Electra’s first film (cult classic American Vampire with Adam West), and being a contestant on Jeopardy. Rollin is also an award winning off-Broadway playwright with plays produced all over the US as well as internationally. As an author, Rollin’s short stories and poetry have appeared in various magazines, journals and anthologies, including the Night Picnic Journal, Aphotic Realm, Door is a Jar, Coffin Bell, Gathering Storm, and Gravitas, among others.

On the Glitter Crescent

on the glitter crescent

of the moon

i shall find pink dust

that crumbles in my hands

shimmering rainbows

that glint & flaunt

in the waves of moon & sun light

what i wish i could find

doesn’t stay easily

so i grasp my hands on particles

bring it close & deep to me

no one can see

the trail of moonstones

that echo in my footsteps

find refuge in my privacy

some joy

just can’t be shared

without the hurt of heartbreak

so i find rhinestones & gemstones

inside the corners of my palm creases

my acrylic nails

have been to space

& never the meteor

simply just the vacuum of nothing

find the deep hollow

that the man in the moon lives in

i paint my face in glitter

& face the day anyway

he loves

deep moons

which hang from my earlobes.

Leave the Geode

leave the geode

whole & uncracked

sitting on the windowsill for

another day

just left to be

a small gray moon

not the guts of gemstones

spread glittering

for the world to see

take hammer

let these rose quartz

intestines trail

all over the room

calcite & amethyst

hold a force field

to the destructor

the geode is

the schrodinger's stone

but not quite ready to open.

so instead the geode

cracks slowly & waiting

it is the dragon’s egg

seeking warmth

from no mother

an ancient eggshell

that has beauty to offer.

Cotton Candy Fluffs

cotton candy fluffs

held gracefully in a raccoon’s paws

he prepares it to wash

not knowing water will

dissolve treasure in his hands.

the beast known in garbage cans

city alleyways & bandit faces

wants to make sure

every dish they eat

is clean.

so the raccoon takes

what is only seen as sugar fluff

sees reflection in

the cleanest puddle

that can be found

only wants to make sure

this meal is rid from disease.

raccoon is found digging

at water’s surface

asking the world desperately

where this treat

could’ve possibly gone

finds himself wading

in this deep pool

where he finds

sugar substance at the surface

but nothing else.

Mercury Sunderland (he/him) is an autistic gay trans man. He's been published by University of Amsterdam's Writer's Block, UC Davis' Open Ceilings, UC Riverside's Santa Ana River Review, and UC Santa Barbara's Spectrum.

‘Down in the Depths’

Alfonso Keller-Casielles

Down in the Depths

(She nearly dies when it happens.)

Dragged beneath the waves, thrown about by the harsh currents caused by the sudden violent storm. Her lungs burn as she fights against the wreckage of her former ship, nerves sharp with fear, like a knife pressed against her jugular. The threat of an almost assured death made her want to lie still and at the same time claw and kick with all her might. Her instincts chose the latter.

It is only now, her chest aching with the effort of keeping in her last breath, that she curses her confidence; her years of sailing with her father and brothers, she blames those feelings and memories for her lack of a life-jacket. Or anything else that would have aided her in staying above water.

Clinging to the last breath trying to claw its way out of her throat, she continues to kick and swim against the water that’s grasping and pulling at her limbs, tugging her now unbound hair, curling around her ankles and wrists; invisible chains that will drag her down if she lets up for even a moment. Adrenaline is her only hope, but even that is being steadily washed away. 

Her efforts are proven worthless in the end. As good a swimmer as she is, as much as she tries to reach for the surface, her struggles only manage to slow her descent, to keep the surface just in sight as she’s tossed about. Ropes tangle around her limbs, slippery bindings that send her racing mind into a panic and cause her to thrash even harder, which only serves to entrap her further.

She knows these waters, has lived and grown in them, and as she sinks, she remembers the tales her father and other sailors had told her; of the men who fell into the depths during a storm, and knows the next time her body touches land, her soul will not be with it.

She doesn’t know how much time passes, the meaning of minutes and hours blur together in her spinning, pounding head, but eventually, inevitably; her body forces her to take a breath. Her throat, nose and chest burn as saltwater rushes in. Bubbles slip past her darkening lips to float lazily to the surface. She gasps and chokes, unable to close her mouth as she struggles for air, struggling to expel the horrid fluid, and so claws at her own throat, at her gaping mouth, salt stinging across the marks she leaves.

Of course, that doesn’t help, it doesn’t stop her own body from rebelling against her dimming mind, the damage is done and slowly, so very slowly, this child of fifteen, drowns. 

Darkness creeps across her vision as her struggles falter, shivering, she succumbs to the elements, the waters she had loved and trusted, claim her. The echo of movement, as well as the circling currents, keeps her from stilling completely, however. Limbs twitch with the fading fire of her life as the water continues to rush past and around her, twisting her limbs and tangling her hair. Deeper and deeper she slips, the frigid water that surrounds her stealing the last of her body’s warmth, and finally her eyes shut. One last bubble floats from her parted lips, and it is the last sight her eyes take in before the dark cold waters claim her.

No. (Calls a voice, a melody so familiar it hurts.) This is not where the story ends. 

Without warning, hot white light bursts like a bolt of lightning across her vision. She gasps, her eyes wide and unseeing as they roll back in her head. Cold limbs jerk painfully as somehow, more water pours and swirls in her open mouth and throat. Her abused lungs jerk in her ribcage, threatening to burst from her chest and swim back to the surface for the air they so desperately needed.

Remember. (Calls the voice. It is a command she knows she could reject, but--) Please remember, little one. Please.

She surrenders and remembers.

She sees memories from another’s eyes, for they cannot be hers. She sees places she has never seen before yet strike deeply in her soul; she knows these places, as well as she knows her own seaside home. She sees a vast sea, not unlike the one she sees every morning from her balcony window, except there, the water is bluer and shimmers like gemstones beneath a blinding sun. There are no boats, no houses, not even her own, there are no distant sounds of civilization, she is alone. She stands by the shore, surrounded by nothing but vast greenery and the soft warm sand fading into the water. 

Then suddenly, she is rushing beneath the waves, sight as clear as on a sunny day, webbed fingers twisting stones and cradling flowers, hair swirling around like a cloud of crimson, the flash of red-orange scales and sharp fins melting away to pale skin beneath.

Her oxygen deprived brain tells her these images cannot be real, that these are merely the wishes of a dying child, fantastical dreams meant to soothe her frightened mind as she drowns, but her heart, her soul says yes. Yes, this is something you had experienced, this happened.

You have lived before, and your life will not end here. (Swears the voice, sounding almost like her mothers. She believes it.) Remember child; survive as you had so long ago.

Knowledge floods her mind, the force of it causing her head to snap back in the water, her back arching with it. Images flash across her eyes; glistening scales spreading across her own pale skin, the sharp snap of bone as her body shifted, the gentle brush of crimson hair against sensitive gills, fins waving from the sides of her head, webbed fingers reaching out, powerful fin-laced legs kicking, pushing her onward deeper an deeper into the blue.

She cannot fight these sensations, nor does she truly want to; they promise freedom and power and survival. The strange, yet familiar energy surges, scorching her frozen veins, promising her the strength to return home. She wouldn’t have refused even if she could have. 

Fresh agony strikes anew all over her body, rushing through her in seemingly never-ending waves as she screams silently, the water swallowing the sounds and bubbles rushing from her mouth, carrying her cries in their soft spheres as they rise higher and higher in clusters.

As the final wave fades, she gasps again, and starts at the realization that she can breathe. She blinks rapidly and gulps down water and air instinctively until her vision returns, and she finds herself still staring into the murkiness of the ocean. She coughs, saliva and water and bubbles mixing as her hands fly to her abused throat. She feels large fragile slits with waving slips of flesh opening and closing with every breath on the sides of her neck and for a moment, she wonders if she has already died and this is the afterlife; where she will remain trapped beneath the waves, bound to never-ending water for eternity. She’s not sure if that would be a reward or punishment. 

She prods at the slits, (because they can’t be gills, she can’t have remembered a life where she had shapeshifted into a sea creature. Where she had grown into an adult in the wild. Where she had died –) and tries to recall if she had really torn open her own throat before she succumbed, or if she remembered a piece of debris cutting across the tender flesh before the darkness had swallowed her. 

She couldn’t. 

Thoughts whirling and spiraling down, threatening to drag her deeper into a more frightening and crushing dark, fear rising like an underwater volcano waiting to erupt, she stops. She hovers in the water, taking deep impossible breaths, and counts down from ten to calm herself as her mother had taught her, shutting her wide roaming eyes from the murky dimness. All is quiet, except for the dim roar of the currents and her own uneven breathing. She strains to hear anything other than the maddening forcefully calm silence, her ears twitch (something that’s never happened before, not that anything in the last while has happened before but still) and she raises a hand to one, immediately jerking away from the thing on the side of her head that is clearly not an ear. 

Her eyes remain shut tight as she takes more deep breaths, and slowly, shakily, she returns her hand to the space where her ear should be, only to brush over what is clearly some type of ornate fin that has replaced her ear. Which isn’t possible. 

(Except that is it, because she feels it.)

Both hands rise, fingers prodding and rubbing against the new delicate flesh, at the small smooth fins that twitch under the barest amount of contact. Retracting her hand, she takes another deep breath, her deepest one yet, and concentrates on the feeling of the water entering her gills – god she has gills and she feels ones on her sides too, and longer fins twitching on her calves, dear god what is happening — the wonderful sensation of her continuing existence, the sweet taste of oxygen and the expulsion of water. 

She rests for a time, rocked gently by the currents, limbs brushing against the wreckage of her boats shattered remains still floating around her, breathing deeply. How long she stays like that she’s not sure, she only knows enough time passes for her to get used to this new version of breathing she now has to deal with. 

For a brief, hysterical moment, she marvels at the transformation; she’s a creature of the sea, something she’s dreamt of before, which does nothing but make her believe even more that this is either an elaborate dream, or that she’s really dead.

As if her emotions were waiting for that thought alone, she’s sucker punched with the vivid recent memory of how she came to be in this situation. The sudden storm – loosing control of her boat, though she’d fought with all her might – the slippery rope tearing across her palms, slipping from her grasp as her sails whipped wildly in the wind – the water rising and falling into her eyes, saltwater surging from below, nearly causing her to loose her footing – that final wave backed by the loudest boom of thunder she’d ever heard and a bright flash of lightning – and finally, being thrown from her deck, that brief moment of weightlessness, before she fell into the water with a back-breaking splash, where she’d then been dragged deeper and deeper and – 

Panic surges up in her again, the ghost sensation of drowning accompanied by the water circulating in her throat and chest causes her to choke and claw at her throat again. The twitching gills frighten her even more, and with her pulse pounding in her head, a racing, consuming lub dub, she loses herself, another soundless scream bursting from her lips. She screams and cries, the space behind her eyes burning almost as much as her abused throat as her emotions push and pound her skull like the previous storm.

Eventually, she manages to calm herself, her mental logic forces its way to the forefront of her whirling mind, instructing her and pulling her back from the brink of madness and into a cool numbness. (The voice sounds like the rumble of her father’s, which helps more than she’d care to admit.) 

After she gains just enough control, she decides to try to get to the surface before she has another panic attack, which when she opens her eyes again and looks up, she can faintly see far above her. Past the remaining drifting wood and floating supplies she’d had on board, consistent dull light flickers, reflecting off the water, the storm seeming to have passed. She attempts to move up, only to be reminded of the debris wrapped around her. How had see forgotten that?

With a growl she digs her palms into the sandy bottom – oh wow she’s that deep, that’s not good, how did she get that deep without noticing – shakes the panic clawing up her throat and shoves off the bottom, thrusting up with a powerful kick. Her efforts are cut short by the rope still wrapped around her form, caught tighter from her sudden movement. She spends the next while twisting and unwinding the rope that had ensnared her, the cause of her eventual loss against the water. Slipping free with a smirk, flashing large sharp teeth unknowingly, she turns and levels a bright-eyed glare at the outlined remains of her former vessel.

For a split second, she mourns the destroyed boat, then the rage and horror at her previous drowning rears its head and she suddenly couldn’t care less about the shattered collection of wood and metal. Not even the thought of her parents almost certain anger and disappointment can change her feelings. 

With a mighty kick, she turns and swims up towards her goal. She wastes no time with further thought as she swims. For now, she will ignore the changes, ignore how easily she moves through the water, how free and powerful she feels as she races towards the surface, how much a part of her is saddened by the idea of dry land. She will ignore everything; she will waste this unbelievable and impossible opportunity over the chance of returning home and will hope against hope that all this will be but a strange dream. That she will wake up in her bed to the sounds of birds, the lapping of water and the warm voices of her family.

All she wants to do, is go home.

So she swims, racing towards the image of her mother’s warm embrace and brilliant smile, to her father’s steadfast kindness and endless strength, to her two older brother’s contagious laughter and unwavering support. To the house by the seaside that her father had built with her mother, to her family’s special cove hidden by jagged rock, untouchable unless you were willing to get wet, and the beach she and her brothers had been raised upon. The sun-warmed sand that had embraced her and cradled her toes when she’d explored the edges of its blue companion. The pale grains that brought her treasure from the depths and let themselves be thrown about and reformed into structures that made sense only to the mind of a child.

She rises with a splash, the wind carried across the waters surface causes goosebumps to rise on her pale skin. She shivers, resisting the urge to return below, to the blue that seemed so much warmer now. After being under so long, the light of the oncoming sunrise burns her eyes, but she doesn’t care. She just squints, lips stretching until her cheeks hurt from smiling and simply floats, shutting her eyes as she breathes the fresh cool air. 

Then, she turns, gaze immediately set towards the beach, to the bright outline of her home, and kicks off with a loud splash. She swims, racing across the blue with ease and does not stop until she feels the sand beneath her feet, sucking at her toes in welcome. Her chest clenches, lungs burning and pulse roaring in her ears. Still, she smiles. 

Slowly, limbs heavy with exhaustion and relief, she drags herself onto the beach, nails clawing into the wet sand before collapsing upon the soft dry powder further on, managing to roll onto her back before her strength gives out, because as grateful as she is to be back, having sand in your mouth is still disgusting. She lays there, breathing (god breathing is so wonderful) and staring up into the beautiful sky lightening to that brilliant whit dotted blue she loved as the waves nipped at her heels. Then, she hears someone call her name. Loudly.

“Marina!” She rolls back onto her belly, raising herself onto her forearms, turning her head to the direction of the familiar voice. Somehow, her smiles widens even more as she watches her mother sprint down the path and across the grass and sand towards her. Marina rises, to her shaking knees, and watches her mother’s unbound wavy red hair whip behind her, green eyes bright with concern, the same color she alone had inherited.

“Oh, my baby.” Her mother cries, eyes ringed red and beginning to water anew, before dropping to her knees and skidding in the sand, her calloused hands reach out, hovering, uncertain, bright dilated eyes darting over her child’s form, searching for injuries. Finding none, she wraps her hands around Marina’s trembling arms, leaning close, searching the younger’s face, as if she would find her answers there. 

“What happened?! You’ve been gone for hours, you had us all so worried!” Her mother cries, throwing her gaze briefly over Marina’s shoulder, searching the horizon, nose scrunching when she finds no trace of her daughters’ small boat before returning to her daughter’s face, brow furrowed. She opens her mouth, only to close it again as she takes in Marina’s wobbling pale lips.

“…Mom.” Is all that manages to pass Marina’s lips before her voice cracks. Tears burn in her own eyes and begin flowing down her pale cheeks. Marina trembles, opening her mouth to explain – to offer something – only to find she can manage no more than squeaks and whimpers. Her mother manages a strained smile and caresses Marina’s dripping sandy hair, and that is where the dam breaks. 

With a violent cry, Marina collapses against her mother, clutching with white knuckles at the dry cloth of her shirt, pressing her face into her mother’s soft chest. Sobs bubbling from her throat as warm strong arms slip around and hold her close. 

It’s not until she’s been led back inside, carried in her mother’s unwavering grip and set down on one of the kitchen chairs, upon which her mother races off for towels that she notices the gills and fins are gone. Her flesh is once again scale less and pale, made even paler by the cold. Only goosebumps and freckles paint her skin now. She bares no marks, as if the last few hours hadn’t happened. (She’s not sure what to do with these waring feelings of relief and disappointment. She’s not sure if she wants to know.)

Marina whips her head up at the sound of shuffling feet in the doorway leading deeper into the house and immediately sees the heavy shadowed eyes of her father. She opens her mouth to call his name, but all that passes is another strained whimper. But she knows he knows, sees the look in his eye that tells her; any explanation can wait. Her eyes burn and spill again as her father – her big, strong, never-faltering, wonderful father – marches over and pulls Marina into his arms, encircling her with his furnace warmth and his familiar sea salt and wood smell as she sobs anew. 

That’s how her mother finds them; clutching at each other as if letting go would shatter them both. (Marina misses the look her father shoots her mother, misses the worry and steel in her father’s gaze. She doesn’t see the hopeful fear in her mother’s eyes.) Her father will back off long enough for her mother to wrap her in thick towels and start scrubbing at her hair and skin before her brother’s appear at her sides. A whimper of relief will sound – because she is home, she is safe, her family will know what to do. They have to – and she will be nearly knocked over by the rush of arms coming to hold her.

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Later, she will tell her mother and father what happened; she will sob and bark and tell her terrible fantastical tale with trembling lips as she fights the agonising panic clawing at the bone cage of her ribs. She will sob between her brother’s arms and will be talked through another panic attack.

 Later still, Marina will miss the way her mother’s eyes gloss over with sorrow of a different kind, as similar bright green orbs shine with guilt and anger as Marina’s helped into a quick shower and wrapped in soft and warmed blankets before being put to bed. Her brother’s sandwiching her between them. Marina will not be awake to hear her mother’s curses and cries as her father holds her close. She will not hear the words she mother spits in sudden, heartbreaking anger:

“We should have told her sooner. Damn the rules – she needs to know.” 

Her father won’t have the will to disagree.

Even later, when daylight breaks again, Marina will wake alone and be forced to bitterly accept the reality of her near-death experience. She will lay in bed and breathe deeply, for that will be all she can do until the nightmares (memories) of drowning fade deep enough into her head for her to shake off numbing hands of paralysis. Then she will remember the thrill and horror or her transformation, and her siblings will find her curled on her side sobbing because of emotions she doesn’t understand. Emotions she’s not sure are her own.

Marina will be sat on the couch between her brother’s as her mother tells her own fantastical tale. Of her mother’s hidden bloodline. Of a cycle of reincarnation and a prophecy her mother had always known by heart and hated with all her being. (Marina will try to hate them too, but deep in her soul she knows her anger will not last. The voice from before assures it.) One that has chosen Marina to one day set out and accomplish seemingly impossible tasks and lose things she does not yet have. A tragic and horrifying story Marina has no choice but to participate in. (But that is a tale for another time.)

Her mother will tell – and show – that she has the same abilities. Her mother will tell Marina that they are different, her brothers carry no power, and she will be given a name – sea shapeshifters. For while she may appear human, and will look as such down to her bones, her blood will always be called to the water, will change for it. Whether she agrees or not.

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For the present moment though, she will simply allow herself to be a scared child attempting to drawn strength and reason from her family’s love, from the warm bodies encircling her as her mother and father pepper her skin with wet kisses. 

Here and now, tomorrow is distant. (Even if her memories, new an ancient, are not.)

Rachel Racette, Metis, born 1999, in Balcarres, Saskatchewan. Interested in creating her own world and characters. Writes science-fiction and fantasy. She has always loved books of fantasy and science fiction as well as comics. Lives with her supportive family and cat, Cheshire. Lives vicariously in fantasy settings of her own making. Website: www.racheldotsdot.wordpress.com Twitter: Rachel S Racette - Author