Breadcrumb #657

DALLAS WHEATLEY

I was raised sharing black raspberries on hot summer days with anybody who wanted them.

I grew up surrounded by animals. My neighbors raised cattle, my family kept cats and dogs, we chased squirrels out of our barn and watched black snakes sun themselves in the road on a hot day. Bears would visit our trees during the dry season. And we all feasted on raspberries.

I miss the simplicity of sitting beneath the shade of a cherry blossom tree, feasting on sun baked black raspberries, and watching the birds find materials for their nests in the hay field next door.

I miss sharing them with my dog, who loved to pluck them from the thorny bush herself. Pruning the shoots away so I could still be outside in bare feet, feeling the grass between my toes. Watching the deer lick dew from the verdant blades in the early morning mist.

We always had too many berries, and though it plagued my parents, I loved being able to share them with the local wildlife. They were ours, not mine.

The bushes became sacred. You left technology aside while attending them. You picked the fruit for yourself. We never once collected them to sell or freeze, because they were best when eaten immediately. What we left, we left for the animals.

I now make smoothies from frozen raspberries grown on a commercial farm based in Maine. They're tart and underripe, nothing like the perfect specimens I was raised on -- berries that would burst in your fingers if you pinched them too tightly, turning your nails purple as a mark of your viciousness. I know better than to share these sour red stones with the world around me. They're just a shadow of the ones I grew up loving, a reminder of a memory long gone.

Giving those berries to the deer or birds outside my apartment would be an insult to not only them, but how I was raised. We deserve to share the fruit we harvest ourselves, the bushes growing in rocky clay soil at the base of an ancient mountain as we greet each other from afar.

I never once called animal control at my old home in Appalachia. Those animals lived there just as I did, and we fed on the same fruits in the same seasons. But years later, when a bat got into my apartment in the middle of a busy town, I felt afraid -- not for me, but for the bat.

Why was such a small thing trapped in my apartment, so far from where it should be living? Was it hurt? Sick? Too young to know any better? Or simply lost? And then I worried for my rabbit -- if the bat is sick, will it make my rabbit sick? How do I get the bat out without catching some illness myself?

The more time I spend away from nature, the more afraid I become of what used to comfort me. I grew up around animals, both wild and domestic, and never once felt fear for my safety. But now, a single tiny bat can send me spiraling. And it haunts me, knowing that I will not outlive my grief of what I have lost.

I was raised sharing black raspberries on hot summer days with anybody who wanted them. But those bushes are now gone -- uprooted by my own parents who considered them a nuisance -- and the animals have hidden themselves away. I am still searching for them as I have searched for myself: quietly sipping at a raspberry smoothie.

• • •

Breadcrumb #655

E.S. SPARKS

“Alas, my love you do me wrong…”

A weird song for a child to sing, for sure.

“…to cast me off discourteously.”

Cast by Mr. Bowen. I’m the little girl just there in renaissance green velvet and garish gold lamé on the videotape. Past the tops of all those moms with 80s bangs teased up to high heaven, center stage. Glowing fluorescent under the bulbs turned up bright for the Christmas play.

“For I have loved you so long…”

Jesus. At least they chose a secular one to round out the program.

“…delighting in your company.”

I brush the ringlets from my face. My cheeks are strained from smiling HARD, the way only little kids do. For a moment I forget where I am and press the back of my hands to my cheeks, see the tiny fists and limp wrists? Mr. Bowen looks pissed, off to the right in front of Miss Fuller on the ivory keys. I jerk my arms down to my sides pulling on the hem of my dress. It’s fucking hot.

“GREENSLEEVES WAS ALL MY JOY!”

Really belted that one out before falling back, stiff as a pin, into a row of Santa’s little helpers and, luckily, a snowscape of strewn cotton stuffing. My dad, ever the naturalist director of photography, kept the shot tight on me until my mom yanked his elbow down—and if you listen closely—she can be heard to say, “For chrissakes John!” And that’s why they got a divorce.

Kidding. They probably just plain old didn’t love each other. That’s the usual reason, right? Not like Lady Greensleeves and whatever poor sap wrote this ditty about her. Whose most defining characteristic wasn’t even her forearms but like, the fabric covering them. You know I read somewhere that “greensleeves” may have been a euphemism for prostitute back in the day. Green owing to the fact that in those times ladies of the night would often do their work in the fields and get grass stains on them. Though in that case I think “green knees” would be more apt, don’t you? Ha ha. Not that I think sex work is a joke. I don’t. It’s work. Not “work” like this is “work,” sure. But work nonetheless. I’m veering off topic, let’s roll the tape back.

I love that about VHS, you actually roll the tape, or wind it rather, back. And you see the white static-y scrape in the middle of the screen. What actually causes that? Some sort of mechanism in the VCR must, though I don’t know how it doesn’t mar the ribbon permanently. Especially with this one. I can’t tell you HOW many times we rewatched this one. No telling why. It was pretty traumatic when you think about it. That’s the thing about being a kid. You go through an awful lot of shit before you realize how bad it really was. I’m talking YEARS later. I mean, I don’t wear velvet anymore. Sure, why would you in the South to begin with, I hear you, but I won’t on principle.

“ Whose most defining characteristic wasn’t even her forearms but like, the fabric covering them.”

Speaking of, that Principal Farb was one nasty piece of work. Probably not hard to guess what the kids used to call him behind his back. Yeah. This guy gets it. I swear he HATED me. I dunno if it was because I ruined the pageant or what but after that he was on me like a hawk every time I used the water fountain near his office. Once he asked what I was doing there and I said I was parched, and he retorts, real condescending-like, “I bet you can’t even spell ‘parched’,” and I was like “P-A-R-C-H-E-D” ya  D-I-C-K (only I didn’t say that part out loud) because little did he know I was the UIL spelling champ come that spring. That shut him up.

There—where I put my arms down. See I think when I did that I locked my knees. It’s funny how no one ever really locks their knees until you’re at, like, assembly and they specifically tell you not to lock your knees and then not five minutes later some kid is fainting on the bleachers and Principal Fart’s all, “That’s it I guess we’re just not doing group pictures this year!” and everyone cheers and honestly you’re grateful yourself because you’re pretty sure you sneezed in the last one. And Adam L. isn’t next to you anymore because goddamn Sarah Little got transferred to your school district after her dad got custody and now everyone likes her because she’s new and it’s all so sad and you can’t even see Adam over her big stupid head.

You know we were all strangers at the start of this but now I feel like we’re a little closer, me sharing this footage and all. Kinda like the way I slipped into my old vernacular. You become more aware of that stuff when you’re up here, talking. I don’t have to be all flowery and literate with you guys (no offense), not like at my readings. No, this is a safe space. I can drop it just like—ah here she goes again—TIMBER! I shouldn’t laugh, it’s still a little girl falling, even if it’s me. It’s weird to think about, that girl being somewhere in me, like rings of a tree. There I go, waxing poetic. And after you’ve all been so patient with me. Patient patients, ha. I’ve never made that connection before. Sort of like we’re all waiting to be seen—Oh, that’s time?

• • •                                                                       

Breadcrumb #630

ALEX BUXTON

Death rested the end of his scythe in the dust and said a silent prayer for the small body in the canyon, still some way off. He looked around. It was hotter than hell out here, and twice as dusty. A dreadful place to be wearing black.

‘Are you Death?’

A small voice at Death’s side brought him back to the present.

‘Who are you?’

The little girl pointed to the body up ahead, and then her own face.

‘Don’t you recognize me?’

Death craned his neck.

‘Oh, yeah, of course.’

‘If you can’t see from here, we could go closer.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Death hurriedly. ‘We don’t have to go closer.’

“It was hotter than hell out here, and twice as dusty.”

‘Do you kill people with that?’

She was pointing to his scythe now.

‘Not really, people are generally already dead by the time I get there.’

‘So what’s it for?’

Death shrugged.

‘It’s good to lean on sometimes.’

‘What don’t you want to go closer?’

Death squinted into the midday sun. Flies were starting to settle on the little girl’s corporeal remains.

‘I don’t really like dead bodies.’

The girl didn’t say anything, she just stood looking at herself lying amongst the rocks.

‘No offense.’

The girl looked at her feet.

‘Well,’ said Death, ‘we need to get going,’ and he started off through the desert.

After a few seconds the girl trotted after him.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

Death scratched his head. Why did everyone ask that?

‘I don’t know,’ he answered truthfully.

‘Will my parents be there?’

Death did a quick mental calculation.

‘Not for a few years yet I’m afraid.’

‘Oh.’

There was silence.

‘Your grandma’ll be there,’ Death eventually offered, in an attempt to cheer her up.

‘Yeah?’

After that Death had run out of things to say.

They walked on through the stifling heat. It really is hotter than hell out here, Death thought to himself.

Eventually, the girl piped up again.

‘How much further is it?’

‘We’re nearly there,’ Death told her. ‘Not far to go now.’

The silence alone could kill you in a place like this.

Death found his mind wandering. He looked at the baked, red rocks all around them, carved smooth by millenia of winds, and wondered if, if he was mortal, he’d find them beautiful. He poked one moodily with the end of his scythe as they passed.

‘Will you hold my hand?’

Death left the rocks alone and looked down at his companion.

‘I’m scared.’

Death reached out a hooded sleeve and felt her small hand tighten around his.

‘Your hand feels funny.’

‘Sorry, they’re not really meant for holding.’

‘That’s alright.’

They were at the door now. Sensing their approach, it opened for them. The girl stopped. They stood together, looking at the door.

‘I can’t go with you, it’s against the rules.’

‘Are you sure?’

Death nodded.

‘When will I see grandma?’

‘I don’t know.’

The girl still didn’t move.

As gently as he could, Death put his arms around the little girl and picked her up. He could feel her wrap her limbs around him, burrowing into the space where you’d expect to find a chest with a beating heart. He wondered what that must be like. Softly, he stepped forward towards the door.

‘It won’t hurt.’

She nodded against his neck as he reached through the door and put her down on the other side. As he withdrew his arms she opened her mouth to say something, but before she could make a sound the door closed, and Death was left alone once more in the desert.

He stood for a minute, trying to think of something to say back, then started off again through the dust.

• • •

Breadcrumb #574

JENNIFER HON KHALAF

When Ness saw the first moth flutter out from the pantry, it was unimportant. In fact, it could have been sweet, pretty; a muted butterfly of sorts. She swatted its wings away from her face. Rob was due to come over in a few minutes and she needed to get the pasta into water so that dinner would be ready for him.

After dinner, they settled into the couch with some chocolates to watch a movie. Tonight it was her choice, something characterized by Netflix as a "dark romantic drama with a strong female lead". Apparently, this is who she is and what she likes. Being a dark romantic drama, the light flickered only intermittently from the television. At one point, her chocolate bonbon was illuminated - small spots dotting its surface. 

"Why are there holes in my chocolate?" Rob didn’t turn his head from the fight unfolding onscreen, so she pushed the bonbon in front of his eyes which squinted and focused. 

"Hm… that doesn't look right."

They paused the show and walked into the kitchen, turning on the light so that Rob could investigate,. He set the chocolate on the cutting board, slicing it in half. Something fluttered. Dimly, she could see a small white creature, wriggling in pain from being slashed in half. More holes drilled the inside, forming tunnels in and out.

"Looks like larva of some kind."

She couldn't speak and found that her hands were raised, covering her mouth. 

"Well, what do you want to do?" Rob turned to look at her when she said nothing, her eyes  widening when they met his. "How many did you eat?"

She could only raise her left hand, five fingers up. She could have been waving,demanding a high five, telling Rob to stop the interrogation, or admitting that she had eaten five pieces. Either way, she walked off to the bedroom to burrow into the sheets and curl up, feeling a churning nausea, trying to forget the translucent wriggling of the broken worm.

"Whoo!” exclaimed Rob. “At least we don't have to finish that boring movie!"

Ness dreamt of larvae boring holes. They tunneled through the walls, dropping onto the floor, traveling through pantries, only to keep on with the incessant tunneling straight through the floors. IWhere she was standing they kept on burrowing, at times up into her feet through her soles. She moved to the sofa, butthey had already squeezed their way through the stuffing, then into her back, buttocks, thighs. It didn't hurt; instead they studiously quarried away, miners unearthing treasures, eating their fill, moving onwards.

Rob's hand stopped stroking her side. "That dream is nasty, Ness. We've got to do something about it."

She tried, but it was difficult to explain how they burrowed inside, through her skin into her essence; it wasn't gross, she insisted.

"Well… no, that's gross," replied Rob. 

The next few days were devoted to determining the identity, source, and methods of destroying the infestation. Whenever Rob came over, he would use Ness’ laptop to Google the different pests that congregated in their area of the world. Shoving the laptop in her face with a giant blown up image of a multi-segmented beetle, he exclaimed, "They're drugstore beetles! Oh wait, I've discovered a new function on Google images. They're pantry moths. Whatever they are, they're a good source of protein!" She had eaten at least five good sources of protein. 

Or it could've been more. The way they burrowed, tunneled, they moved inside of her body. She kept dreaming she could feel them inching along, traveling through her limbs, moving towards the ventricles of her heart, little tingles when they turned around, ran into one another and switched directions. Intersecting, growing, multiplying, transforming as they moved. They moved ever so slowly, but every night these dreams made her sweat, toss, and turn. They were figuring out where to go. But it was too much for Rob, who stopped spending the night. "You wiggle too much now, and you're taking all the sheets."

Rob started bugging her about cleaning up the kitchen, but she only grew silent and pensive. He had written down a list of what she had to do to deal with this problem. First, all the food would have to be thrown out, frozen, isolated, and/or inspected for contamination. Then, every surface would have to be wiped down with hot water and soap, followed by another disinfection with a dilutionof vinegar. Finally, she would have to clean and quarantine any food that was brought in from the outside world. That was where they really came from - outside. 

“She kept dreaming she could feel them inching along, traveling through her limbs, moving towards the ventricles of her heart, little tingles when they turned around, ran into one another and switched directions.”

He stuck the list up on the fridge door and for weeks, whenever he came by, he’d remind her to get started on the great cleanse. He still came by after work to watch TV while she wandered to and from the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, pretending to tidy. Whenever his cutting gaze caught her, she felt exposed. When he came into the kitchen, he pointed out all the telltale signs of invasion: small, dry brown shells which lay scattered; a grain of rice that started wagging on its own; clinging particles signifying cobwebs; a flash of dry, papery wings sweeping past as he opened the cupboards. "I'm trying to help you. This is a really serious problem."

Ness began to feel an almost continuous sensation of revulsion. Almost anything could be a symptom. It looked like a grub; it appeared by a beetle; there, a moth, here, a speck of dust, a mote. This was supposed to be her domain. She felt guilty for failing to keep a clean kitchen. His list, written in black Sharpie, all caps, stuck in the middle of the fridge, was so long and demanding. When she peered into her kitchen, there was nothing, but then if she tried to see things the way that he did, the signs were everywhere: lurking, hiding.

She had stopped cooking because there was the risk of discovery with everything she opened up in the pantry. A bag of risotto could be wriggling larva. She could stare into the depths of the bag for minutes, concluding that there was nothing but inanimate granules. Yet they’d start curling up, shrieking and smoking, when she poured it out onto the heat of a stovetop. If she didn't make risotto that night, they could have continued living safe and unknown, coddled amongst the grains in the dark warmth of the cupboard. They could have been free for the duration of their lives, doing whatever that entailed; being a grub, turning into a beetle, maybe building a cocoon of one's own and finally bursting out as a moth.

In the moments at home alone after Rob had left for the night, she crawled into bed and found that she could start burrowing into the covers, maybe drill down into the memory foam and discover another world. 

"Fine - if you don't want to eat or make anything in the house, then let's go out to eat. Go get dressed." But wasn't the source of the problem from outside? That's how they first came in. Going outdoors felt too exposed. Why go? Why be peeled away from her soft sweats and jersey into stiff heels and scratchy jackets, out into the cold, shrieking wind, waiting in line outside of a bistro surrounded by smokers, forcing conversation in order to drown out other conversations that weren't meant to be overheard? If they had dinner at a restaurant, there was no TV. Instead, they'd have to sit across from one another, gazing at the full blast of each other's faces. Ness couldn't remember the last time she and Rob had talked about anything meaningful - or at least, meaningful to her. If the waiter was slow, they might be finished talking about what happened earlier in the day, the weather, the people around them, the decor of the restaurant, all before ordering. Then what would be left? 

What is loving really like? To be able to crawl within a person's innermost veins and tunnels, looking around and knowing that this is what they were made of? An almost undetectable presence, only there every once in a while, made known by a tingling in her chest whenever she needed reassurance. It was unimaginable for Rob to be so small, a part of her in that way, imperceptibly burrowing into the Ness-ness of herself. Instead, it was always a ripping off of sweet silence, to force himself into her innermost sanctum. He was always shoving things in front of her face, pushing his hands onto her body, giving her advice, gazing upon her, listening to his voices, his thoughts on top of her reverie. Maybe all Ness wanted to do was to burrow and brood. Why did she have to do things? Least of all, why did she have to throw everything away and start rubbing her counters with vinegar? She wondered what it would be like to have a giant chocolate egg as a home, so great she couldn't see past its borders. It would sustain and protect her. It was food and home. The gingerbread house in the fairy tales without a witch or a brother - but hers and hers alone. Ness would eat and eat until she was sleepy, then lie down surrounded by dark, soft, sweet walls, nibbled down to embrace her shape. Then maybe after a little rest, she'd start making a cocoon, one in which you’d start knitting a cloak around yourself, building and building, until finally it encapsulates you fully and you are surrounded by nobody else, nothing at all, free to dream about the metamorphosis.

It was a relief to hear the clang of the spare key and the slam of the door. Turning the deadbolt lock slid in the last stitch, and she could finally rest, secure in knowing there were no more possibilities of intrusion, interruption. She could curl up on her bed amongst the blankets - nay, even venture out to the living room and stretch herself out on the rug on the floor, and still be enclosed! Ness was waiting.

• • •

Breadcrumb #514

MARJORIE TESSER

Up on deck there’s a saline breeze and milky stars and endless ocean, shiny and black and moving like synchronized seals under the moon.

The cruise had been booked by my husband, though I’d barely gotten used to thinking of him as that. We’d gone from our first meeting at the conference to messaging to weekends to wedding, and from wedding to ship, friends and family seeing us off with bubbles instead of rice, which is said to harm the birds. How had I agreed to this?

The ship is our home away from home, our haven, our womb, our first-world vehicle for an arms-length tour of the third. Several days out of port, several more till the next, and then again to be herded down the gangplank to lie, flaccid and pinking, on gravelly beaches, or drift mindlessly in and out of overpriced shops to dicker over tourist trinkets. On board we are scheduled like children; steered, managed, and cajoled to participate in games, lessons, sports, and amateur theatrics. There are plenty of nap times—around the pool, on deck, where the ever-present thrum of engine lulls me to a drowsy stupor.

Everywhere, at all times, there are people. And, of course, my new husband ever at my side. The cabin is tight quarters. If I say I’ll take a walk or go work out or sit on deck and read, he jumps up and comes with. I book a massage; he says great and changes it to a couples one. I’d thought I’d known it would be different but hadn’t counted on this constant togetherness. Yet worse, he keeps trying to draw others into our ambit—at dinner, full of bonhomie, he invites all and sundry to sit with us, at the pool, he hectors me off my solitary float to join in a game of water volleyball, in the lounge, he badgers me to join in the singing, while he plays old show tunes on the piano for a jolly throng. After much too much alcohol and rich, heavy, yet somehow unsatisfying foods that leave me logy and overly full, I find myself again in our small cabin, enclosed in his embrace. He’s currently crashed out in the stateroom, satiated after yet another round of our marital intimacies. I slither from under the heavy arm, dress, slip out.

Outside there’s a night breeze that’s cool but hints of heat, like the breaths you sneak when you’re close to a person you crave, but can’t show it; little sips. I wander until I find the one uninhabited area of the ship, just deck, stars, and a lifeboat hulking under its tarp. A corner of the tarp is loose. “Not a bad place to hide,” I think, and then hear approaching steps. My husband? Not that awful woman from the lounge? I quickly climb, rubber soles gaining purchase on its side. I lift the loosened tarp and lower myself into the lifeboat. Like Alice going down the rabbit hole, or the children in books who, by fluke, luck, or happenstance, enter a mysterious portal to a magic world of novelty, adventure, and danger, without a look back I jump into the lifeboat. The same way Jack climbed the miraculous beanstalk, quickly, without much thought, mainly because it has appeared.

“ On board we are scheduled like children; steered, managed, and cajoled to participate in games, lessons, sports, and amateur theatrics.”

Inside is dark, with just the lifted corner of the tarp admitting a pale haze, the clouded solution of night and deck lights, moon and stars. I sink to the floor of the boat, lean back and slowly let out breath. There’s a spark the second before I hear a striking match and then an orange glow of cigarette end, the sharp tang of smoke.

“Sorry,” I mutter, and make for the opening in the tarp.

“Don’t leave,” a voice. Another match flickers; he holds it before his face—a young man. The flame burns down, nearly to his pale fingertips. I lean and blow it out, conscious of my breath on his skin.

I don’t like cigarette smoke, but his is somehow nostalgic of high school, shared illicit smokes in the bathroom, in the dark corners of the playground. He was pale as a rabbit with hair black as crow. Hiding or holing up, here in the dark alone.

I am polite. “I’ll go if you hoped to be alone.”

“I wasn’t.” He drags; exhales. “Hoping.”

Something of the unworldly about him. Pale and slender, but strong underneath, sinewy. Luminous. Hair black as the night ocean. Faint violet sleepless half-circles under deep-set eyes. His voice a light tenor, hypnotic.

“Then why...”

“This is the safest place. From the bores, the authorities. From pirates, Ninjas, aliens, love. Disaster.”

“Have you been...imbibing?” I ask delicately.

He barks a quick laugh. “Did you know where the Coast Guard has its Lifeboat Training School? It’s called Cape Disappointment.” I think I understand.

Glints of moonlight spark the centers of his eyes with little flames. The lifeboat is a satellite, suspended, its own world.

There’s a dankness in the air and I shiver. I remember the warm, bright lounge, my husband’s cozy bed. “Maybe I should go.” Footsteps outside, close.

A moment—freeze frame, a still second.

The ocean is a chameleon—pearl grey in the morning, bottle green when frosted with foam in the afternoon, shiny black at night. The ocean is a dissembler. It seems as if solely water but underneath teems with creatures bizarre, alien, dangerous, like the seemingly kind neighbor who turns out to have a secret life. There are some who find the ocean peaceful, but others accuse it of being deceptive, passive aggressive. The ocean connects home with the places we go. It is answerable to only the moon.

Once activated, the mechanism begins to lift the tarp and to lower the lifeboat, which after a few moments dips, then buoys in the inky sea, bobbing gently in the wake of the big ship gliding steadily on, lights moving on its tiers of increasingly distant decks.

• • •