Scareship_Issue8

“You don’t see,” says the snake. “You fellas sink your roots
shallow and live with your bad dreams...”
The snake points its tail at me; rattling like dry bones. “...now
you’ll see.”
The words melt with the reed-whispering wind, and could
have been nothing more. The water creatures sink, receding before
the sun. The tendrils of night dissolve into nothingness. I’m lying
by the dam, its surface still, a wad of al-foil and bootlaces bunched
in one armpit.
This feels like the end of a bender. My head certainly hurts. I
rub a tender spot at the crown, then pat down my jeans. They're
wet and muddy. I could have fallen in the dewy grass.
I run to the house without looking back.
* * *
The Folk are euphoric, having thought me lost. But I stalk
around the farmhouse, unsettled. The rooms are spick and clean,
but I smell rum. The past night sinks into the weirdness between
dreams and memory repressed. The house is too bright, the hour
too early. I close my door on the Folk and fall on the covers.
* * *
It’s after noon when I get up, cranky as a post. The Folk flock
to my door, eager to share in my story, but I’m not in the mood and
push them away. They scatter, but then hang at the edges of vision,
glancing, observing, and for the first time, that makes me mad.
I want to be alone.
I pace around the kitchen. If there’d been mess, I’d have
cleaned to get my mind off things, but the Folk have done it all. I
look at my study books, still strewn on the rug. I smell rum again,
stale and lingering. It turns my stomach, so I go outside.
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