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In My Smallness
by Shelly R. Rich
I sent everyone home earlier, and now I’m sorry. I’m frantically investigating,
sifting through the carpet picking up bits of nothing. I stick white pieces of lint and
small debris into my mouth, spitting them back out, not finding what I crave. I hear
something behind me and my stance quickly shifts. I scuffle around on my hands and knees,
hitting the mirror; it’s streaked, licked clean over an hour ago, and my reflection
is distorted and milky. I hurl it under the couch.
I crouch lower, and crawl to the door entry and glance down the uncarpeted hallway; the
floor’s hardwood pattern seems to go for miles, but in reality, just two yards back
to our bedroom where Brandon is sleeping. I lie down on the floor, cool, but gritty, and I
can’t remember the last time it was mopped, even swept for that matter. Tonight its
honey-swirled color reminds me of when I was small – come to think of it, just about
Brandon’s age.
It was late night after my fifth birthday party and I woke up thirsty. I pulled on my new
Mutant Ninja Turtle slippers – Michaelangelo – a present from my best
friend Jimmy who lived across the hall. Mikey’s eyes peered protectively from behind
his orange mask, guarding me as I scooted down the hall, sliding like a skater over the
syrupy smooth hardwood floor to get a drink of water. I knew my mom had friends over
because I could hear voices, mostly muffled, but one was booming and menacing like the
Shredder. I muttered to Mikey to keep his numchuckus ready for action.
When I turned the corner, I screamed because I thought my mom was being attacked; her head
was down over the kitchen table and a guy was holding her hair at the back of her neck.
She jumped up from the kitchen table and stumbled over a footstool to scoop me up.
“What’s wrong, baby? Nightmare?” Her nose was white. I reached for her
face, but she turned her head and used the back of her sleeve to wipe it, and sniffled.
I tried to tell her I just needed some water, but a man stormed toward us like a Foot
Soldier, and yelled, “Get that damn brat outa here!” His was the voice I heard
earlier, and up close, I could see that he even looked like a Shredder. I pushed my feet
out from underneath my mom’s arms, so that the mutant hero could intercept his evil
advances.
“I can’t believe you’ve got a kid – man, you’re such a fool! You
know they’ll take her away from you, don'cha?”
Her clutch on me tightened, and she sniffled, wiping her nose again. Mama’s teeth
were gritted and she snarled, “When pigs fly!” In my smallness then, I imagined
a pig like Porky, sprouting little wings and watching his pudgy pink underbelly fluttering
over my head and giggled. “Pigs can’t fly, mommy.”
My fingers caress grainy specs on the floor, as they trace the grain of oozing shapes in
the unwaxed wood. In my smallness now, I hear the rustle of farm animals undergoing
strange transformations, in that land where pigs fly, bulls give milk, dogs talk, and hell
is always frozen.
* * * The End* * *
Kissing Feathers
by Shelly R. Rich
Helen loved the ocean
and Transit Bay; she walked
alone along the beach as a grey sky folded into a
charcoal flat line on the horizon, the wind moist and
the air thick with an emulsion of oil and brine, of decay. Thoughts of her marital dissolution
interspersed with the dismal feel of the spill's
aftermath, together forming an indelible suspension of
grief and disbelief that made her feel even heavier.
Hundreds of thousands of gallons of oil and diesel had
been deposited along the Transit's shores.
Alex would be working the spill, she knew. He'd be
assessing and calculating, interpolating the facts to
reassure the public that the Bay would recover, the
effects contained. She was sure to see him on the
news, discussing these matters - the cleanup measures
being taken and excuses as to the spill's cause. His
words would undoubtedly be accurate, anchored in
truthfulness, viable, but the outcome was nonetheless
tangible. She held her arms outward and upward to
mourn with Transit Bay, as soft breezes whipped in
anger, then swirled in consolation.
A black-capped bird was partially burrowed in sand and
Helen knelt next to it. The tip of its long sharp bill
pointed straight up and its light grey feathers were
matted thick with tar. A red leg band - USGS 0710 -
identified the bird as one that was being studied.
Helen plucked a coat feather, and slid her fingers
from the base to the tip of the slick blade and formed
a dart. She held it loosely and upon release, the
quill caught the wind, twisted like a drill and
plummeted as if it would bore through the sand,
perhaps detour the pollution into a giant collection
bin deep in the earth's mantle. She pulled a second
feather and shot it like an arrow; the plume stopped
mid-air as the wind ceased then bottomed like a
cartoon, bulleted downward to meet the gentle laps of
the incoming tide.
She dug through the bird's coat and found soft down
layers, those protected by the outer contour feathers.
She pulled one and brushed it against her cheek,
kissed it, let it go. It floated sullenly, drifted to
the edge of the water and she watched as the shallow
rip current swallowed and spit it out, then
disappeared. Helen flipped a scallop shell from the
sand and used its edge to retrieve the marker from the
bird's leg and began her journey home.
That afternoon Helen called the United States
Geological Survey which reported that her bird was an
Arctic Tern, tagged in 2001. She did an online search
and discovered that terns mate in the summer; the male
and female share incubation of their two eggs and
travel from pole to pole, 25,000 miles a year. They
mate and fly.
That night she cooked fish, frozen after last summer's
trawling, and as she pulled the TV tray to her lap,
the local news began. Alex's mouth was moving, but
Helen didn't listen, not anymore; instead she blew a
kiss and changed the channel as a single gull settled
on her balcony.
Brief bio:
Shelly R. Rich is a freelance writer and tutor living
in the western North Carolina mountains. Her work has
been published or is forthcoming at Eyeshot.net, Opium
Magazine's first print issue, FlashFiction.net and The
Binnacle.
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