Java.March.2017
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GIRL ON FARMER<br />
By Celia Beresford<br />
I was mowing my lawn in the dark this evening and<br />
a big rock hit me in the leg. The rock just flew out the<br />
back of my electric mower. I have feared this kind of<br />
thing for many years. Here I am, innocently mowing<br />
the lawn, trying to be neighborly and cut my weed<br />
fi eld into a semblance of a yard, and boom! Some<br />
random projectile flies into my eye and that’s that.<br />
Down from two eyes to one. Just like that.<br />
Since I couldn’t fi nd the headlamp, I wrapped a<br />
freshly charged string of solar lights around me for<br />
guidance. It seemed like the smart-person thing to<br />
do, but it was still kind of dark. The next bright light<br />
came from something I ran over that made a big<br />
spark. I was scared to keep mowing. Not for some<br />
rational reason, like “this doesn’t seem to be very<br />
safe.” Instead, I was concerned that I had spent so<br />
much time thinking about the injury of a projectile<br />
that I was now tempting fate from said projectile<br />
gods. In fact, I was so scared that I almost didn’t tell<br />
you about it, in case the universal overseer of flying<br />
things could hear me or read my thoughts. Or the<br />
rock or twig, or whatever it is, knows I am avoiding<br />
it. I’m thinking, great, I’ll write about this, then the<br />
underground league of flying things will hear about it,<br />
and next week I’ll get speared in the eye by a falling<br />
twig or a rabid bird with excellent aim. (Note to self:<br />
do not leave house without safety goggles.)<br />
I am actually terrified writing this right now, but I’m<br />
not sure why. Well, I know why, but it’s ridiculous,<br />
because what happens and whether or not I<br />
mention it will not affect anything. Right? So you<br />
think! Call me superstitious, I guess. No, really,<br />
do call me that, because I am. In college I was<br />
convinced for two years I was hexed. Even before<br />
that I was always concerned with black cats, big<br />
fl ocks of birds, walking under ladders and that sort<br />
of thing. Scarecrows—no thanks. Laugh at me now.<br />
Just be careful when they pop out of the cornrows<br />
and climb into your bedroom window.<br />
My fear of non-human things being able to read my<br />
mind and/or inflict their will on my life got an early<br />
start. In seventh grade I slept over at my friend Zara<br />
Stone’s house. Earlier that day, her mom had told<br />
me about a bat that had it in for her—I mean a bat,<br />
like the mammal. What happened was, earlier in the<br />
38 JAVA<br />
MAGAZINE