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Swallowed Up

She keeps herself in that water where shy fish wait. Whatever movement never reaches the surface. Nothing lighter ever makes it down this deep.

Every day of the week is for something, and Saturdays are for her being sixteen and ajar: combat boots and fishnets, those threads stressed across her knees; graveyard gates and tombstone tables and leather jacket bedding. Music is barn owls and coons, bottles clinking and walkman headphones cradled between two heads, bracelets jangling and bras unsnapping.

Yes, or no, or maybe. It's impossible to answer when she cannot hear the question. Jenny tutors, guides her fingers until an answer emerges she is certain is incorrect, but without knowing the question, she accepts on blind faith.

They swim in belief here, in this yawning pond. Their movements so subtle. Their light so dim. The surface too distant to come up for air.

Story by:

Crystal Folz

7 May 2018