Steren – Entry Four

I’M NOT HER

But I became what you wanted me to be.

Nanny Cath, are you thankful that I did or annoyed that I almost didn’t?

It was never the outside that I loved, Nanny Cath, but the inside that I loathed. The sea creatures would follow me up the dune to the front path and stop, shake their heads. They wouldn’t come in, but would wait for me in the cold. I knew they were hungry. You knew they were hungry. It was not the tea I didn’t like, it was the squeal of a billion leaves having their tips removed. The creatures crying as they looked at the sea. My capillaries lit like wires. I could smell my own nose-hair burning. And when I went back out they would be bending into the dune, stretching at it with curling limbs not releasing themselves until I strolled ahead, onto the boardwalk, into the pampas, pockets stuffed with shortbread. They slithered beside me, took the book from under my arm. They removed my apron, and sang me back to the ocean, their lips spraying spit and crumbs. This is what they sang. THIS BIT HERE. This bit here.

IT WAS NOT WINTER

And then of course, the journalists… They spotted me reading in the passenger lounge, followed me onto the ship. Their shoes whispered through the wood and up to the sundeck. I believe they liked me. I believe you sent them to like me. I quickly lapped the deck and crouched behind the stacked up recliners, trying to find the face in the moon. I hugged my book and thought of you. The moon was smiling her cheeks into mounds as the sea pushed its jewels towards her and towards her and towards her.

I caught her eye. I said a prayer.

THE JOURNALISTS

The moon pursed her lips and blew. I saw them all fly from the deck, their feet rising above their chins, hands scrabbling to hold the railing then the flag pole then the rim of the great red funnel. Their many, many notebooks opening and flocking out and up towards one fluttering star.

They were gone.

Except for one.

He leaned around the layers of chair legs, asked me my name.

I wouldn’t tell him.

He worked my tongue loose, with tentacle fingers, until I said JULIA, then I cried like the creatures waiting for me on the dune.

But he said this. He DID.

I became what you wanted me to be.

Nanny Cath, am I thankful that I did or annoyed that I almost didn’t?

And will you write to me again?

JuLiA

by Amy Liwall