“You embarrassed me, Annie. I don’t why you always have to be so weird.”
“I’m not that weird.” He used to think I was funny. He used to think the quirkiness was cute.
“That crap’s not normal, admit it. Normal people just say ‘Hi’ or ‘Nice to see you again.’ They don’t sing inappropriate lyrics at their husband’s colleagues.”
I wanted to say, ‘Oh yeah? Well, normal husbands don’t have inappropriate colleagues.’ That seemed like a good comeback. But I was still iffy on the magnitude of my wrongness, so I shrugged and fell back on a weak, “Sorry.”
“I’m sorry I can’t count on you.” Oooh. Burn.
Marcus pressed the automatic garage door button and pulled in so fast I thought we were going to break through the back wall. The second he stopped the car, I ran out, tucking into an Indiana Jones roll beneath the slowly closing door. I rounded the house and reached the backyard as it screeched and thumped against the ground, metaphorically sealing me out.
Good. I hope he goes right to bed and sleeps off the douchebag. As for me, I planned to sleep outside under the stars like the big weirdo I am and wait for the owner of the feather in my pocket. Maybe he/she/it can tell me where I’m from.
Marcus doesn’t know this—I didn’t know it myself until a year ago—but I really am a little bit of a feral child. My mom wasn’t my bio-mom, and her final act at hospice was to confess this to me. It was a very poignant scene, but terrible timing. I would have preferred about twenty years earlier or never.
She called me a foundling, which is much more romantic than a feral child. She was hiking with her mom, early one summer morning. They stepped into a clearing in the woods and saw me, my pale skin and hair glowing against the emerald grass. No blanket, no diaper, no clothing. My only possession was a shimmering feather in a chubby baby death-grip.
They were lonely and a little bit bored, so they decided it would be fun to adopt me. But nobody ever figured out who I was or where I was from. Or what in the actual hell I was doing buck naked in the middle of the woods.
The feather had to be a clue. It’s always meant something to me, even if I didn’t know what. I loved that thing like other kids loved their blankies, I carried it everywhere until I was six and it was promoted it to its place of honor in my journal, where all the secret things go. I decided it wasn’t anyone’s business but my own.
I laid down on the ground to wait for a sign or a visit. The grass tickled my calves and bare shoulders, and I sunk down further into the earth, flattening the blades. Gazing up into the night sky made me realize how long my eyes have been down.
Pegasus came immediately into focus. The brightly starred square and trailing plumes gave way to his powerful equine body, shimmering wings, and hooves. His strength was comforting. Ever since I was small, he’d always been my favorite.
There’s supposed to be a foal, too, peeking out from behind its father’s long face. I’ve seen it in books—Equuleus. But I’ve never actually been able to find it. Maybe tonight would be the night. Squinting, I searched for that sweet little bundle of stars, but only darkness flanked the constellation. Pegasus looked lonely.
Hours passed and so did sleep. I started to regret my bitter campout, but not enough to go inside. And besides, I didn’t have my key.
My reddened eyes distorted the stars until they were rips in the night sky. I heard a song one time that said something about stars being the holes to heaven. I loved that idea—that the stars are little tears in the fabric of our world that give us tiny glimpses to what lies beyond. It’d be nice if some of that heaven dripped down.
Sighing, I closed my eyes. That was enough staring down the sky for one night.
A hot wind rolled over my face and cascading softness brushed my cheek. Silvery tendrils fell about me, covering me with a moonlit glow. I brushed the mane away and looked into eyes as deep and black as the spaces between the stars. He whinnied softly and shook out massive wings that enveloped the sky and eclipsed the stars. He was here—not my ghost, but my Pegasus.
I jumped to my feet and reached for him, every fiber of my body screaming to join him. To climb up on to his back and beg him to fly me home. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and the muscles rippled against me like water. His glowing ivory flesh wavered, brightening and darkening in my grasp, as he moved between the tangible and the intangible. I held his undulating form, whispering nonsense and wishes into his silvery pointed ears.
But, as we all know, the more you try to hold on to something, the faster it goes away. Pegasus faded in my arms and I was left hugging myself, with nothing but a pale feather in the emerald grass.
Marcus came home early from work with a present. It made me wonder a little bit if he’d ever actually met me, but I thanked him anyway.
It was a big bag like Alpha Wife Althea’s, filled with little bundles of yarn in every color of the rainbow. Normally I like lots of colors, but this looked like a gnome’s barf bag. I told him so, and he rolled his eyes.
“Don’t be silly. Anyway, I thought it’d be a great hobby for you. Althea really enjoys knitting.”
“And if I did, too, then I’d have lots of normal things to say at parties.” No answer. “Does Gina knit?” I asked.
“Gina works.”
“I used to work. I could go back to work. A job would be a good hobby.”
“Painting on people’s fingernails is not a real job. And we’ve talked about this, you don’t need to work. I’ve got everything covered—”
“So, are there, like, needles in here?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
Coming home early meant going back late, so Marcus went back to the office or whatever after dinner. I went upstairs and found the knitting bag slumped on the bed, spilling its colorful guts. The needles glittered defiantly at me, long, sharp, and useful. I had no idea what to do with those bitches. I picked them up like chopsticks and picked at noodly threads of yarn. I put my hair in a bun and stuck them crossways through it. I spun them like miniature batons until I accidentally poked myself.
I was going to Google how to knit, but then I didn’t want to anymore. Instead, I stabbed my pillow, thrusting the needle deep into its unsuspecting puffiness. The fabric made a muffled popping sound with each puncture, sighing its displeasure.
Little bits of white fluff welled up from beneath the black satin pillowcase and bled through. Marcus thinks black sheets are sexy. I always thought they were kind of try-hard, but I liked how the pillow looked with its ivory innards pouring out of it. I wrapped the knitting needle around bits of fluff and pulled them through until I’d sprouted a three dimensional constellation. The fabric of the pillowcase gave a shadowy backdrop, like the midnight sky.
I stuck the knitting needles in my back pocket and strolled down to the backyard.
The grass was hot and sweaty. It seized my bare arms and legs with a hundred damp little fingers. My heels sunk into the soil between patches of green, anchoring me to the earth. I locked eyes with the sky and Pegasus brightened. He twinkled a greeting and I smiled up at him. I’d like to think my teeth were just as dazzling as those glimmering stars.
Equuleus, the foal, was nowhere to be found. That’s okay, though, I had a theory about that.
The stars shone down, through the velvet cover of night. Wayward beams forced their ways through the pinholes in the night sky. These constellations were hints from heaven, pictures from another world, and messages from those that lived beyond. The light from Pegasus unfurled from its fixed places, dangling like long, ragged threads. They dropped closer and closer to me, until I was surrounded by long glowing strands. I could just about touch them. Instead, I held up a knitting needle and wound a thread of light around it. The glowing, ethereal yarn clung to it like a snake on a branch, coiled and ready.
Headlights flooded the yard with crude, artificial light as Marcus rounded the corner. My star thread evaporated beneath the glare. Bummer.
I
slid the knitting needles into my back pocket and sprinted through back door and up the stairs, two at time. I dove into bed and curled up in a ball, letting out soft, intermittent snores. He didn’t even look my way—just hopped into the shower. Which is good, ’cause it gave me time to hide the raggedy crime-scene pillow.
I have gotten better at pulling star threads. Within moments of looking at the sky, I can pick out the glowing fibers straining against the dark curtain of night. They press heavily against the little rips, forming pictures and figures. I’m working on the threads of Pegasus. Each night, I wind them around a knitting needle, one by one, drawing them closer to the earth. They fall around me in a tangled web, grazing my skin with a burning static. Soon I’ll figure out how to knit that glittering mess into something I can hold. That’s what he wants.
Marcus called. He’s “working” late again. I actually heard the air quotes this time, but he doesn’t know that. I think he thinks I’m stupid, but really I’m just glad he’s “working” late. The later the better. I can’t work on my knitting when he’s here.
I stole away to the backyard and sat cross-legged in the grass. Tonight, the star threads from Pegasus dropped and surrounded me, without any prompting or tugging. They waved in the breeze, caressing me with warm, shining tendrils. It was like being tucked into a deep-sea anemone, the bioluminescent deep-deep sea ones I saw on the Discovery Channel. As above, so below, I guess.
I pulled the knitting needles from my back pocket and seized two of the sparkling threads. With a satisfying series of click-clicks, I knit them together in nice even stitches. Just like the nice old lady on Youtube did with her yarn. They were remarkably cooperative. The burning strands twisted over, under, and through each other, blistering my fingers as I gave them shape.
Within moments, a large wing covered my lap. A shimmering, white-feathered wing. I ran a finger over the feathers, ruffling them slightly. One loosened and dropped to the ground. As it did, the weight of the wing lightened and it faded from view. All that was left was a glowing feather in the shadowed grass.
Marcus didn’t come home last night. I figured I’d better call him in case he was dead in a ditch somewhere. Gina answered. I know it was her, ’cause she’s the only one I know that has a legit deep, raspy, sex-kitten voice. Such a stereotype she is. I hung up, glad to know that Marcus was not dead in a ditch somewhere.
Later, I texted him and told him he didn’t have to come home at all if he didn’t want to. I could use the time alone.
He didn’t text back, so I assumed he’d taken me up on my offer.
“I’m ready to go home now,” I announced. I was tired of the dim sadness that flanked Pegasus. He looked so lonely.
Star threads fell about me, like strands of Rapunzel’s hair. The radiant fibers were too thin to climb, of course. I was going to have to knit them real. Seizing the closest threads, I worked them beneath my needle, stitching and purling and all that knittery stuff until a solid shape began to form. My hands cramped with the fever of my work, and the heat of the star threads scalded my fingers. But when I saw the strong equine head take shape beneath my hands, I bit my lip and pushed through the pain. Hours I stood, knitting the stars, just as the Fates weave their tapestry.
A soft whinny let me know I was done.
Pegasus stood before me. This time, he was solid and present—not a ghost or a vision. I hugged his neck, feeling the caress of soft fur beneath my cheek. When he shook out his wings, they shaded the moon.
I glanced up curiously, and saw only a dark patch of sky where his constellation had been.
“Can we go home?” I whispered, my lips brushing the velvet of his ear. He nodded and tossed his glittering mane, stamping the grass with silver-tipped hooves. I was psyched, but also completely baffled as to how to climb aboard such a stallion.
He snorted in amusement at my hesitation and knelt forward. I climbed onto his back, nestled between his soft feathery wings and wound my fingers through his mane. Within seconds, we were flying—soaring towards the emptiness in the sky at a breakneck speed.
I wasn’t scared. I knew this speed. I’d been looking for this speed my whole life, ever since I was the odd little girl on the swings. It was the speed designed to smash that emptiness and break through to the world beyond, leaving nothing but the soft remnants of our light in the rips. I just needed Pegasus to get there.
Astride his light, we confronted the darkness. Our bodies were the battering ram that beat down the barrier between this world and the next. The black veil of sky shredded beneath us as flesh dissolved to light. We pressed on through the tightly drawn fabric of night, squeezing through the rips and tears that are the only gateways to the world beyond. I was back where I belonged.
No one could miss Equuleus now. My happiness blazed forth, illuminating my constellation’s holes to Heaven. Peeking out from behind Pegasus’s strong head, I looked down and saw Marcus wandering around our backyard. I twinkled a good-bye wink at him, and I’d like to think he winked back. Or maybe he just had something in his eye.
***
J.G. Formato is a writer and elementary school teacher from North Florida. She lives in a little house at the edge of the woods with her beautiful family. You can find her work in Persistent Visions, Luna Station Quarterly, The Colored Lens, freeze frame fiction, and elsewhere.
Eel and Bloom
Diana Hurlburt
Three strange horses stood outside the house on the day the corpse flowers bloomed.
They were strange in that I didn’t know them by sight but they were normal old horses, warmbloods of some variety, not limerunners—water-bred, strange by nature. The piebald snorted as I came up the drive, the chestnut blinked, and the gray eyed me, one eye brown and one milky blue. I suspected he wouldn’t like to have people on that blue-eyed side. Voices floated from the front windows, my mother’s lost amid lower ones, men’s voices, and I stopped before opening the door.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” one man said, and another added, “Thinking to out-smart us, she is,” in a strange, coarse accent. They fell to squabbling, a mess of chatter about the night’s race, every other word caught in the gap-boarded walls.
As my mother’s voice responded, the wind picked up, chiding my eavesdropping. It whistled through the Australian pines, the tongue of it hard against the windowpanes and carrying a scent—not rain or exhaust from the highway a quarter mile west but something heavy and rotten, some dead flesh I didn’t feel like dealing with. It was summer, not butchering season, and I wanted spring water in my nostrils, hay and horse sweat, not death.
The door bumped open and hit me in the chest, and I stepped aside as three men came out. Whatever the dead animal was, wherever the carrion lay, it was less important than the business the horses’ riders had been here about. No one came to see my mother this close to sunset because they wanted to.
Each of the men looked at me as they passed, which suited me not at all.
I watched them trot down the road toward Tampa, the horses’ hooves stamping crescents into the dirt. The gray had a nice long gait. God usually gave horses with a blue eye something extra to make up for it.
“You smell that?” Ma cooed when I came into the sitting room. Death-scent was all through the house now, bad enough that I wanted to close the windows, though the heat probably would have been worse. She rocked in the chair my grandfather had left before running north, her feet firm on the hooked rug. “That’s swamp money in the air, girl.”
I didn’t know what she meant, and there was no sense in wondering, because she was about to tell me anyway.
She rocked slower, the cadence of the runners creamy to my ear, planed wood smooth on wood polished by years of feet and lemon oil. She nodded in unison with the chair’s movement. “The corpse flower, my Bea—oh, it seeded long before either of us was born, it’s more legacy than anything else on this property.” She spat to the side, saliva and tobacco landing neatly in the tin pot placed at the base
of the tall bookshelf for that purpose. “What did I say when your grandmomma took me into the back garden and pointed at the tallest plant I’d ever seen and said ‘Mira, this plant above all else’? Why, I thought she was crazed, everyone else did too, but—”
Ma tapped the two good fingers of her left hand on the rocking chair’s arm. Her lips closed up tight, studying me. Then she said, “You best ride crafty tonight, Bea.”
That put my back up. I didn’t like when people talked about a race before it was run.
“No no, girl, none of that look of yours. No. Now.” She straightened in the rocker, glaring. Her blue eyes were about as uncanny as that of the gray horse. “You know I’m no gambler, God forbid, but I don’t believe the Lord frowns upon dealing with those who do. For the good of my family! It’s a hard life we’ve set for ourselves out here.”
We’ve set, she said, as though I’d had any say—or, for that matter, as though she had.
“That bloom will make our fortune,” Ma said. She waved a hand through the air, heavy and ill-smelling and physical, wafting it toward her face. “You wrinkle that pretty nose all you like, daughter mine. It’s called corpse flower for a reason. And before you get petty, know this: it ain’t because the scent is bad, it’s because the pollen…the living parts…that crumbly bit of nothing raises the dead.”
She laced right hand through left, five fingers wrapped around two good ones and a scarred mess of palm, and smiled at me. She said, “You beat them at their own game, or three trappers walk out of Springfed with more power than any soul’s got a right to.”
Hair went up along my neck. Trappers they were called, though they seemed more like carrion birds to me. The death-scented flower out back would suit them fine. They traveled, sometimes on the highways and sometimes on the corpse roads; they had a knack for showing up when Molly Sullivan’s great-aunt died and left her a bracelet of rough, dark hair, or when Ben Lopresti went fishing in Low Springs and dredged out a silky’s token in his net. They never had the wrong currency for a purchase, whether it was lips pressed to a bit of paper with a certain name in it or cold cash.
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