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A Reminder of Incongruous Times

by Samantha Farley


I remember their freckled parts, rumpled skin and dusted downy hair, like elephants.  Our world was marked by ripped cuticles and les faux pas. They were both beautiful—alluring—with their curls damp and limp and eyes that hid behind spiny shadows.  Hi hi!  We’d always greet each other and bleed ourselves drunk and drowsy, swinging out onto my boat for our night fishing.   It smelled like rain and everything was painted in the dark, sassafrassy tones of Alaskan sunset. I’d push us out into the center of the pond and lie back, watching light retreat.  Blackness always brought release; I’d always cry.  The beetles surfaced at night, easy to catch quivering in my hands.  We must eat, my dollies! I’d crush them with my knuckles, mixing tactfully with my tears, creating a macabre sea of salt water and exoskeletons. Open up, open wide, lovelies, I’d call into the echoing air; and then time clung oddly to the scenery and it was easy to retreat into my depths and eat until my lithe body plumped.  I’d wipe my face of tears and black and just lie there, curling the girls’ soft, cotton limbs into my side until the sky sang with red and orange.  There was something glorious about that satisfaction of fullness, of wholeness amidst the watery seclusion.

Published inNon FictionChapel Hill

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