Breadcrumb #673

HARRIET CLEAL

At first she thought it was a trick of her imagination, but after noticing it shrink three days in a row, she had to investigate. She was right. It was definitely getting smaller. While she’d never had a green thumb, she knew that’s not how plants were supposed to grow. 

The congestion of leaves thinned into unsheltered patches where fragments of leaves had disappeared. Dolores brushed the tips delicately against her hands as if grasping at cotton candy. Parting the branches carefully, she spotted a small sliver of green that seemed to be twitching: a perfectly-camouflaged caterpillar. It was a species she’d never seen before. 

She never liked to boast about it, but she was quite the amateur lepidopterist. Her passion started on her birthday almost fifteen years ago when her favorite aunt gifted her a butterfly on a stick, explaining that it was a hat pin. With an intelligence beyond her years, she took a moment to pause after she opened it. She spirited away the question and sat patiently in the waiting room between her mind and her mouth (“What does a twelve year old want with a hat pin?”) and replacing it with, “How did you know butterflies are my favorite animal?” For the next couple of rounds of Christmases and birthdays, all the adults in her life showered her with butterfly-themed gifts, relieved at having an answer to the quandary of finding an appropriate present for a girl on the cusp of adolescence. At that point, she was left with two choices: admit the lie or learn to love butterflies. By then, already in too deep, she dived wholeheartedly into the latter.

Since then, she’d wanted to study butterflies full time. However, when the time came to make life choices to swerve towards an eventual career path she knew she wouldn’t be able to go through her studies without hearing her father whispering “financial security” over her shoulder every day. Instead, she had opted for the marginally safer career of journalism. 

In any case, she knew enough to realize that this was something special. She carefully trimmed away a few leaves so that she could glance at it while flicking through her heaviest butterfly encyclopedia, pausing every so often to bring the page up to the plant and compare the picture with the gorgeous beast that had somehow ended up in her flat.

All those caterpillars concertinaed from the pages of the encyclopedia into her mind, unfurling from the cocoon of sleep into bright butterflies. They flitted around her dreams, alighting on her thoughts to take nectar. Only one remained a stubborn pupae, refusing her efforts to identify it. She woke up knowing how to get an answer.

It was only a couple of blocks away, but she called ahead to the Natural History Museum who assured her they’d be delighted to help her identify the species. As her beautiful bug seemed to be enjoying its floral feast so much, she took the whole bush. She didn’t even know where the plant itself had come from. It seemed to have appeared out of nowhere after the original fiddle-leaf fig had withered and died, this vibrant vegetation rising in place of the shriveled trunk like a green phoenix. 

“They flitted around her dreams, alighting on her thoughts to take nectar.”

Leaving the apartment, she opted for the stairs to avoid the elevator's temperamental tendency of shuddering to a stop when it reached the ground floor. She felt down each step with the back of her heel, trying to summon the skills she’d gained from hours of her childhood spent balancing books on her head. Whenever her neighbor, a girl named Tabitha, came round they would race each other across the kitchen trying not to let them fall off. Dolores would rarely win (she suspected this was the reason why Tabitha was so keen to play) and she was convinced that Tabitha hid a perfectly flat head under her thick bush of hair. However, on the Advanced Level - the stairs - Dolores would win on occasion through her combination of patience and trying to make Tabitha giggle. She channeled that patience now as she shuffled slowly and steadily to the museum. 

On arrival, she was led past the petrified forest, under the pterodactyl skeleton, along the endangered animals corridor, taking a sharp right turn into the secret guts of the museum where she was introduced to a scientist named Robert. She proudly held out the plant pot, careful to turn it so the caterpillar was on the side facing him. She knew he’d spotted it as his eyes lit up immediately. 

“Woah,” he breathed. “This certainly is a rare one.”

Even though she had left it with him to investigate, the caterpillar remained on her mind as the days passed. She tried to write but every article was another breadcrumb back to butterflies. That story about how to progress in the modern workplace was really just the perfect vehicle for a metaphor about metamorphosis. The digital etiquette think piece she was working on would surely benefit from some analysis of a caterpillar's dating life. Maybe the feature on the importance of getting credit at work could do with a description of the rules on who gets to name a new species of butterfly. She wondered if hers was a new species and if she would get to name it. Papilio dolores had quite a ring to it... 

In the middle of her daydreaming, Robert called to promise her that “the little one is blossoming!” Surely it couldn’t have completed its metamorphosis into a butterfly yet? He must mean that it had coiled up in a cocoon. Still, she relished the idea that she might be able to see its full form already and rushed over, her mind oscillating between pure excitement and fruitless attempts to temper her expectations. 

Robert was waiting for her at the entrance to the lab and opened the door with the air of a magician revealing his trick’s finale. 

“Look at these flowers!” He waited for her to share his excitement. Nothing. He tried again. “I just thought you’d like to see. We’re still not there yet, but these will really help us identify what species it is.”

“The flowers?”

“Yes,” he was confused. “That’s why you brought in the plant…”

“But...? Is the caterpillar…?”

“Oh,” he took on what he thought was a reassuring tone, “Ness - my girlfriend - has a fear of bugs so I know how it is. It looked like it had laid some eggs as well! But don’t you worry. I killed the bastards.”

• • •

Breadcrumb #671

JOSH DALE

There is a panda on the counter of the pizza shop. I double-take. It is a baby, but a panda, nonetheless.

“Whoa, that’s not something you see every day!” I say, stifling a giggle as the panda munches on raw dough.

The only man behind the counter turns from his pizza rolling to me, staring at me with thick furrowed eyebrows. They cross into a ‘V’.

“Yeah, what about ‘em?” 

I shy away at his accusation, defaulting to his rotund, grease-stained tee.

“I’m sorry, sir. It is cute, though.”

As if he was holding back a geyser, the man exhales through his nose, his salt and pepper mustache wavers.

“Ok, kid, you’re right. You don’t see this every day. I’m actually the only place with one.”

He thumbs behind him, showing off a frame on the wall. On one hand, he has keys. Cradled in his other arm, is the panda. Next to the photo, is a newspaper clipping MAN AND PANDA EXCITE TOWN WITH NEW PIZZERIA. The shop looks ancient though, walls lined in wood paneling and the countertops a yellowed marble. 

“I used to love pizza shops as a kid. A lot where I grew up.”

“The shop looks ancient though, walls lined in wood paneling and the countertops a yellowed marble.”

“Yeah? Rememba’ the names? I may know ‘em.”

I shake my head. The names and aesthetics were forgotten but the tastes were still present.

“What pie suits ya fancy?” the man continued, arms akimbo.

My eyes observe all the pizza on display. Some gooey cheese, tangy pepperoni, hearty meat lovers, and even a zesty taco pizza.

“Could I have a slice of taco and meat lovers’, please?”

The panda mews as its jaw opens wide and then shuts on the last glob.

“Comin’ right up. Here, I’ll throw in a drink,” he says, sliding a fountain cup over the glass. I snatch it, making the panda stare at me. Its little brown eyes go right through me. I pour a coke from the fountain.

“So, it’ll be $5 okay, buddy?” he says, pounding the keys on the register. A green 5.40 blips up. I hand him all the singles in my wallet, refuse the change. I note the hand grenade sitting on a wooden plaque saying, “COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT PICK A NUMBER!” As if there aren’t enough odd things here already. 

“Are you sure?” he says. “You never know when you may need—” He counts on one hand. “Two sixty.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” I say. “Can I, maybe, pet the panda?”

He doesn’t respond, just looks to the panda, then to me, then back to the panda. It stares at him, reaching out its paw.

“Sure, sure. Right here, on the very top o’ the head,” he says, pointing. 

I take my time, holding the back near its snout like I would a dog. It takes one big sniff, then backs away. So, I go for it, lightly scratching its head, ending with a pat. It feels like a living cotton ball attached to a Brillo pad. It growls low and I giggle.

“Oh, that’s a good boy!” he says, massaging the nape of its neck. 

I nearly forget the pizza until the smell of taco beef and sausage wafts from the oven. He slides them out with index finger and thumb, catches them with two paper plates underneath.

“Thanks again, buddy,” he says with a faint smile. It’s hard to see it with the mustache, but his lips shift, curve upward even.

I grab some extra napkins to sop up the grease and sit down in the empty shop. The television above the drink coolers has National Geographic on. I catch the baby panda angling toward it when the elephants come into frame.

**

I finish the slice of taco pizza and a large group of people come in. There are at least four kids, accompanied by a set of parents. They have balloons and cake in tow. The children make a collective, ‘ooh’ as they spot the panda, now sitting on a throw rug. The man snaps his fingers and the panda rolls forward onto its front legs. A chorus of claps ensue. I approach the meat lovers’ slice but it’s lukewarm now. I pick off the sausage, pop them into my mouth, and roll the remainder of it into the soggy paper plates. The parents line the counter to look at the menu. I hear the owner say, “Yeah, I’m not sure if I can keep him all that long. Once he grows into the adult size—”. I sneak out before he gets the chance to say goodbye.

I slide the wad of waste and ice-filled cup into a nearby trashcan and take a breath of the crisp autumn air. I reach my car, fire it up, and leave the strip mall. I should’ve asked the man his name. I should’ve asked what the panda’s name was, too. In case I wanted to see it again, maybe it would remember me.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. It’s my mom. It takes only a couple of words before I choke up.

“What was dad’s favorite pizza?” I say to a long, voiceless pause.

• • •

Breadcrumb #669

STEPHANIE STEPHAN

From the archives of the Department of Occult Investigations: Transcription of video titled “LOOKS THAT KILL - Makeup Tutorial” posted by LadyDeathX0x on February 25th at 7:30pm

LadyDeathX0x: Hey Ghouls and Goblins! Welcome back to my channel. So in today’s video we’re going to do something a little different. A lot of you have been requesting that I do a tutorial for my Bedroom Tour video look. So I thought today it would be fun to show you a behind the scenes peek at my makeup routine. So let’s get started!

[01:16] So this is a really versatile look. It’s perfect for going out with friends, but you can tone it down for the office. I wear it a lot when I’m out collecting, and I get so many compliments on it. People, like, literally die the first time they see this look.

[02:14] You’ll want to start with a clean face. Go ahead and prime your skin. My skin is super dry, so I start with a thin application of tallow…rub that in. Then I move on to foundation. I like to use Spirits of Saturn, which is a ceruse based formula. It’s pretty easy to find online, but feel free to use what works best for you. Mercury treatments are really big right now, so that’s another option. But if your skin is really sensitive, just go with arsenic wafers. 

[05:27] So next we’re going to move on to the eyes. Prime those lids. I am ob-sessed with the Soul Sucker pallet right now. I use it every day. As you can see, it has a ton of pretty shades…some greens…some grays…the first shade we’re going to dip into is “Bone-Flower.” I’m going to apply this all over my lid…and bring it up to the brow...this is going to be your base. Next I’m going to take a little bit of “Lethe”…I’ll put some on my hand so you can see it…it looks almost black at first, but when it picks up the light it has metallic flecks of blue and silver…I just love the shine on that. I’m going right into my crease with it. Don’t be afraid to bring that up towards the brow too for some added drama…you know me. I’m all about the drama. [Laughs]  

[08:42 incoherent whimpering]

[08:54] Quick story time. I’m still sort of new to the makeup world. It’s something I’ve known about for, like, a thousand years, but I didn’t start incorporating it into my daily rituals until recently. I think of my vanity as my beauty alter, because it’s where I start my morning. It gives me an opportunity to center myself, and really cultivate the energy that I need for the day. Before getting into makeup I was in a really dark place. I think everyone goes through that time in their life where they look in the mirror and they don’t recognize themselves, and makeup is a way to express yourself, or even reinvent yourself. I like to think of it as finding your true face. 

“I think of my vanity as my beauty alter, because it’s where I start my morning.”

[10:06 chair scuffing] 

[10:08] Wet your brush. I’m using an N19 round brush. I’m just going to grab “Queen” and pack it into my inner corner…for a pop of gold…it adds this kind of sexy…grackle eye vibe. Now we’ll finish up with black liner.

[11:31] Speaking of grackles…It’s time for lashes! These are real grackle feathers. All of them came from birds who died of natural causes. Look at that gorgeous color…midnight blue…what I’ve done is cut a strip of vane away from the feather…you want sort of a crescent shape. And you’re going to take a needle—I’ve already run this one through a flame to sterilize it—and you’re going to thread the needle and just carefully…sew the feathers onto the edge of your eye lid…like this. It takes some practice to get it right. The first time I tried my hands were shaking like crazy. 

[15:00 banging] 

[16:06] Sometimes I get criticized. People make snarky comments like, “Oh, I guess beauty really is pain,” or  “Are you really going to go out looking like that?” and I’m like. Girl. Watch me. [laughs] Sometimes you’ve gotta tear your old self down, you know?…beauty is power…Okay! One more eye to go... 

[21:39] For the lips…this part is super easy. Take some pomegranate seeds and hit them with your mortar and pestle. If you don’t have a mortar and pestle, just crush them up with your finger, back of a spoon…whatever. We don’t judge here. Dab the juice on your lips. Really saturate them…so cute. 

The last thing I’m going to do is add my trademark.

[22:42 muffled screaming] 

This little bottle is Belladonna. I like to do this last because it’s really strong and you want to see what you’re doing. So two drops in each eye…and you don’t want it to run, so tilt your head back and just, like, suck it back into your skull. 

[23:01 scratching] 

And…as you can see, it dilates your eyes and gives you that dewy, oblivion look. Done! There you have it. It takes some effort, but it’s definitely worth it. Now I want to show you guys what kinds of things you can do with this look. [steps off camera]

[24:08 Camera pans to the right. A girl appears on screen. She is sitting in a chair. Her wrists are bound. She is gagged. The camera zooms in. The girl is struggling. She rocks her body side to side. It appears she is trying to escape. Something off camera catches her eye. She continues to struggle, but appears to be transfixed by what she is looking at.]

[26:36 loud ripping noise] 

Girl: [26:38 All noise stops. All struggling stops. Her pupils dilate. They overtake her irises. She smiles.] 

LadyDeathX0x: [27:06 off camera] Thanks for watching everyone! Let me know what you thought of this look in the comments, and don’t forget to like and subscribe for more delicious content!

NOTE: 16 hours after it was posted, this video was deleted by the creator.

• • •

Breadcrumb #667

KEVIN TRAVERS

Angus’ mother never spoke of family. Miriam said the two of them had come from Newfoundland to the Jersey shore when he was five. That explained her accent. Any other questions were discouraged or ignored. When he was sixteen he demanded to know who his father was and she threw a plate at his head. It smashed against the wall and she cried and cried and apologized but this is something Angus never forgot. But he did stop asking.

Angus’ mother was an artist of some renown. Her sculptures were landscapes in miniature, marvelous sprawling forests and mountain ranges of clay and turf and wood, found materials and painstakingly handmade structures. The geography was fantastic and familiar, fields from song and story. Miriam would never say what mythic place she charted but it was clear she knew it like the back of her hand. Haunted hollows of bending trees, sheer cliffs capped with the ruins of once great keeps overlooking an ocean through a curtain of mist that the viewer could almost feel just beyond the sculpture's edge. The small black rabbits that populate these lands, sometimes burrowed in the vast invisible depths of her little countries, have become items valued by collectors. A small but loyal group of enthusiasts have attempted to catalogue each one and trace their homes.

Miriam’s sculptures sold for high prices in the mid 90s and still sit in the homes of the wealthy and the fashionable to this day. The vague stories of her origins only made her more intoxicating. It was rumored that she was aristocracy fallen on hard times, her charm so old world that it was almost other world. She opened a gallery of her own in New York and was comfortable for the rest of her days. 

Angus, her only son, had none of this charm. He was large and shy and clumsy, more at home with books than party guests. Miriam would pet and preen him in public but at home they were left to their own devices. Miriam’s devices were wine and clay. 

And the box.

Angus had never touched the box, never saw it without spying. When he was very young, and Miriam thought he was asleep, Angus would sneak halfway down the stairs and watch her, surrounded by the half completed mounds of her latest piece, a bottle of red by her side and the box on the glass coffee table with the silver legs. The box was wood, old and brown, thick and gnarled. Next to the box was laid a large creased document, yellowed old. Angus couldn’t make out its contents, but he could tell that it was brightly colored, meticulously lined. He thought that there were dragons at the edges. 

From the box Miriam produced two small figurines: on the table sat a golden lighthouse, blue light shining from its peak and a ship the colors of the dawn. Angus acknowledged as an adult that what came next was impossible, but in his memory, Miriam would raise her hands, palms up, and sigh and the ship would take flight around the room, first gliding about her shoulders and then making its way to the ceiling, sails billowing from a true north wind. When she began to weep, he would return to bed and shiver his way to fitful sleep, dreaming of red-haired people sailing the mist in many-colored ships.

“Next to the box was laid a large creased document, yellowed old.”

Angus was not with his mother when she died. He’d been in Philadelphia, making ends meet at the press where people constantly questioned him about being the son of a famous artist. Ever polite, Angus always smiled but had few friends at work. Or outside of work. He was also being dumped.

 “I’ve known the end was coming for a long time” Chase had said, holding Angus as if that made it easier. Angus did not want the taxi driver to feel uncomfortable, but he could barely mask his sobs as he was taken from one broken relationship to another.

A week later Miriam was gone. They hadn’t spoken in a month. This was not unusual, or particularly unkind, there was just nothing to say. Angus felt vaguely like a disappointment to Miriam and she gave him no verbal indication that he was incorrect. She had never lost the accent that he could not place and never had and only reminded him of things he never knew. 

The funeral was well attended but he didn’t know anyone, not really. 

Miriam left a home by the sea, a two-story modern construction with a studio on the second floor. He’d sell it when he sobered up. He slept on the couch during a three week sabbatical from work, he received only phone calls from his mother’s solicitor and from some of the more ruthless of critics and collectors.

  Angus drank gin by the ocean, from a bottle pink with bitters that he crammed with lemons and limes. 

He went through her things slowly. He had been asked to catalogue her few unfinished pieces, the things that had never quite worked out, her models, and the shadow boxes she crafted as a hobby. The ones containing black rabbits would probably fetch a handsome price. Maybe he could get away, start new.

The box was in her closet, the wood a deep reddish brown, its lines hidden in the gnarled surface. The latch was shaped like a rabbit. Angus brushed the latch and the lid flipped open, almost eagerly. The figurines were inside, the lighthouse and the boat that he thought had been a dream. But there was no parchment, no map of parts unknown. 

Angus fell asleep on the couch, the figurines on the table. There was no light, the ship, though still the color the sky as the sun sets, lay on its side, it’s sails windless.

On his last night by the sea, Angus felt an urge to be out of the house. He needed salt air in his lungs, to be surrounded by my mist and water and sand. He brought the box with him.

Angus took a swig of gin and jammed the bottle into the sand. The horizon swayed slightly before him as the sun began to go down. He flicked open the lid of the box at his feet. Tears in his eyes, almost without realizing what he was doing, Angus raised his hands to the sky and gasped a ragged sigh.

A blue light erupted from within the box, the lighthouse a beacon to the darkling sea.

The ship took to the air around him, ruffling his bushy red beard as it spiraled up and down his body. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a small dark shape dash across the sandy banks stopping to regard him before retreating into the grassy dunes. 

A northern breeze began to blow. His fringe blew back and his glasses slipped down his nose, tears mixed with sweat and salty spray.

Angus looked out and hoped to catch a glimpse of larger sails moving on the horizon, red and purple and gold coming at last to take him home.

• • •

Breadcrumb #665

MADELINE DILLON

I

The night she went swimming for the six glowing fish, the boy was already asleep. The river was nearby (similarly, sleeping), and the girl walked there. She was wearing her favorite accessories—calloused bare feet and wild hair made so by dirt and wind. The boy slept soundly as the girl walked out of their home.

It was small, just a single room, and yet they could not fill it. After the boy built the bed, it vanished, leaving nothing but air where the bed should be. The boy and girl slept there together each night, seemingly floating feet above the ground. The stove and refrigerator vanished, too. Then the couch, and then the bookshelves. Now the room is empty, though the girl bumps her wide hips several times a day. 

The girl left the boy sleeping in the invisible bed. Truthfully, as she walked toward the water, she was unsure what she intended to find in its depths. The water was shallow at first. She stepped in one foot at a time and the water lapped softly against her ankles. She wished, in this moment, that she knew how to dive so she could plunge herself into the dark river. Alas, she stepped in slowly until the water reached her neck. Imagining her lungs as latex balloons, the girl breathed in deeply until she thought they would pop, and keeping the balloons at capacity, the girl immersed herself in the black water. She writhed to turn her body upside down and her toes touched the night air through the water’s surface. Her arms were not strong, but she used them as best she could to propel herself deep into the river. 

“She wished, in this moment, that she knew how to dive so she could plunge herself into the dark river.”

When she opened her eyes, there was nothing but blackness around her. She remained still for a moment, noting that her heartbeat seemed to pulse the whole river. At first, she squinted with discomfort from the water against her bare eyes, but quickly became unbothered by the feeling. She had tied a knot on the balloons. Her vision adapted to the dark endlessness and even so, there was nothing to be seen. The girl began to swim through the emptiness.

The girl swam for what could have been several hours. Her arms and legs had slowed and she could not pay close attention to the darkness around her. She wondered if she would ever find what she needed from the river, when the girl saw something from a distance—the most beautiful thing in the world. The girl swam toward it with sudden vitality. It was a fish, she realized as she became close. The fish was tiny, the size of a fingernail, and glowing, as if her skeleton was made of platinum and her scales of rare diamond dust, pink and violet. She swam right into the girl’s hand and nestled there. The girl was so happy, she swam in circles. When she looked at her palm and the tiny fish making her home there, she saw still emptiness, and she began to swim again.

She felt like the sun would come up before she resurfaced if she kept at the rate she was going, but it remained starry and nightly as she swam, exhausted, through the dark water. After finding the first fish, the girl became certain there were exactly five more. She wondered how the boy was sleeping, if he was sleeping, if he was dreaming, if he was dreaming of her, if somehow he was dreaming of her six fish. Mostly she didn’t care, but wonder, yes. The second fish glowed blue. Sapphires and emeralds. The next four shone different colors: crimson and orange like a sunset’s reflection. Silver and gold like expensive jewelry. Bright white and lavender like lush rainy flora. Fuchsia and cerulean like a cautionary summer’s morning. The girl gathered each of them in her palms and swam with her legs, slowly and painfully to the water’s surface. 

II

fish (v). to seek to obtain, to look for

empty (adj). containing nothing

invisible (adj). ignored

III

When the girl returned home, the boy still slept in their invisible bed. 
There were invisible arrows on the floor.
They led to the invisible sink and the girl clutched together tighter her palms. 
As she reached the sink her hands led her to the invisible drain like magnets.
Each of the six glowing fish fell from her palms into the invisible drain of the invisible
kitchen sink.
The girl could feel an invisible pipe narrowing her shoulders and her wide hips. 
She felt her belly contort as she slid through the invisible pipe.
She fell to the ground. 

The boy awoke at the sound of her fall. As he looked upon her, he wondered if she would ever wake up. Then he wondered if she loved him, if she ever loved him, if she’d love him suddenly when she awoke. He wondered, at least. When the girl awoke and raised her head off the ground, she cried at her empty hands and the boy did not understand.

So she told him about her six glowing fish.
She told him about her aching arms in the dark water, how she swam for hours.
She explained the nothingness and how she was so deep she couldn’t even see the moon.
She told him about the first fish, rosy and regal, sparkling and serene in the nightly water.
She told him about the second fish, blue and bold, majestic and masculine.
She told him about the four fish who followed.
She told him about the arrows, how her hands and hips felt heavy with each step.
She talked about the inexplicable need to drop them back into the abyss where she had
searched so tirelessly for them.

The boy thought he began to understand so he said “I understand,” but the girl knew he did not. She knew he would never understand the feeling of the tiny fish in her palms or the feeling that they belonged to her and they always had. The feeling that the fish were somehow a part of her and she them. The girl felt her stomach muscles twist and she felt as if she could fall back to the ground. Instead, she rolled over in their invisible bed with her back to the boy. 

IV

The girl was lovely with her calloused feet and wild hair. She let it grow all over her body. She painted her lips with red paint and sometimes blue when she was feeling melancholy. She kept her fingernails short so she could pick her banjo and her mandolin. Mossy rocks made her smile, along with the twiddle of a flute, knots in trees, fertility, fullness, fish in palms.

The boy was at times aggressive. He often yelled with his lungs and sometimes with his fists. He said he would never dare hit the girl, and she believed him. Still, she watched everything he had made disappear into emptiness around her and she feared she would be next. He was a builder of anything he could eventually destroy.

But the boy listened when the girl spoke. He heard her and he often responded thoughtfully. The girl had always felt comfortable confiding in the boy. Then one day, the girl wept and the boy began to build. She cried and cried, so he hammered away until there were four wooden walls and a tin roof and two windows facing east and west. He hung her banjo on the wall and her mandolin too. He laid a woven rug before the western window so she could nap like a kitten in the warmth from the setting sun. He tried to find her red paint but the best he could do was clay from the river. The boy told the girl he had done something that would make her stop weeping. So he showed her the room he had built for them and for a moment, the girl did stop weeping. When she began again, he built them a bed to sleep on and again, she stopped for a moment. 

“Why are you crying now?” the boy asked the girl when her tears began again.

Soon the bed became invisible. Soon everything else did too. 

“I’ve an idea,” said the boy, as he began to feel further and further from the girl in what had become an empty room. So he tied a red string around the girl’s pinky finger and his own. Soon after, the boy snapped the string, swinging his fist into the wall.

V

When the girl turned to face the boy lying in their invisible bed, she didn’t find him next to her. She wondered where he had gone, but she mostly didn’t care. She wondered, at least. The girl walked slowly, for her belly still felt contorted, to the invisible sink and stared down its drainpipe. She willed the fish to return to her. She cupped her hands and watched them, invisible, in her palms. 

The boy returned, but he did not stay long. The girl let him hold her empty hands. She wept and the boy told her he understood, but he did not.

That night, the girl paced through the empty room before she returned to the river where she had swum so long in the darkness. She knew, of course, she would not find the fish again. They had left a bruise she intended to press for as long as it made her cry to do so. The girl swam so deeply that she could not see the moon. The water was so warm that she could not feel any tears. She let the emptiness fill the space around her, the void within her. She swam.

The boy said “Do not press on that bruise that the fishes left.” So the girl pushed even harder onto it.

The boy asked “Do you want me to hold you tonight?” So the girl told him she would press her back against their wooden walls. 

The boy asked “Do you even love me?” So the girl said “No.”

VI

The girl taped the red string into her diary and she moved from their invisible home. In her new apartment, the girl set up six fish bowls with fresh water and river rocks. When she stepped back to look at the bowls, she found herself dry-eyed and so the girl poured the water out from each of them and packed them away. 

The girl bumped her wide hips no longer. She feared not that she would soon disappear, and she found fullness where there had been none. She wept far less often at the pressing of a bruise though some nights she still swam in the river.

• • •