Flash fiction by Mary Sims
Where the Monsters Follow
She is thirteen and the world is not as it seems. Villages are not safe havens, a house is not a home, and fire stings flesh and bones.
She is thirteen when she is first approached.
"Hello," a voice rings. The night is dark and her eyes unseeing, and when she responds she feels cold down to her bones.
"Who’s there?" she asks, holding her stance, one hand grasping the silver cross hanging from her neck, halting the words threatening to spill from her tongue, but allowing a simple: "What do you want?"
There is a cackle, a flash of light in the darkness, and then: "The question is, what do you want?" The voice purrs, no form in sight, and the hairs on the back of her neck rise, "and what are you willing to give for it?"
For a moment, the world is still. And then: "I don’t know."
The voice laughs.
*
This is how it starts: She is six and she sees things others can’t seem to. Sees shadows in the dark, and clear reflections in muddy water. The other kids don’t understand and she’s too frightened to tell any adults until the day a creature with slimy skin and pointy teeth smiles menacingly at her from across the lake and she runs home to momma in tears.
Momma tells her it’s their little secret, pinching her toes until she giggles, and makes a zipping motion across her mouth. Momma throws away the invisible key and proceeds to show her how to overlook some of the things she sees, reading from an old book she’s never seen on the shelf.
Momma helps; Momma hinders.
*
It’s a gift, her mother teaches, fingers spinning webs only she can see, mouth always lifted in a half-smile.
It’s a curse, she learns—after shadows become hidden smiles and snickers disguise themselves as sudden gusts of wind only she ever seems to hear.
*
This is how it ends: She’s nineteen and hopeless, orphaned with her insides burnt out. It ends in persecution, in having to move halfway across the world. It ends in traveling—fleeing—to America in an old boat with her Momma’s book held tightly to her chest.
It ends in fire; it ends in death.
It ends in heartbreak; it ends in relief.
Her Momma’s end is her beginning, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.
*
She makes a life for herself, ignores like her mother taught her and practices as her mother warned her. She buys new clothes and loses her accent; marries a farm boy who knows nothing more than the town he grew up in, who wants nothing more than a wife and children.
She blends in perfectly; she hates it terribly.
*
She’s sitting in their field—twenty-two now with calloused hands to show for it, and a life so gray compared to its past purples and blues. The sun shines on her face, eyes closed and breaths shallow, when she hears a voice she hasn’t heard in nearly a decade speak through the wind blowing by her ear. "My my," it purrs, hot where her bones have gone cold, "it has been a while. Have you finally decided what to offer to finish our deal?"
The voice is a hiss through the trees, the growing of grass beneath her fingertips.
She doesn’t even open her eyes, only hums in response. Wind blows her brown hair in her face, a sharp snap is made in the distance, and when she finally opens darkness is all she sees.
She smiles, sitting up and turning to face her house, and laughs.
Because gears are turning, events changing, and for once in her life she is not afraid to let the words her mother taught her slip from her mouth.
She is thirteen and the world is not as it seems. Villages are not safe havens, a house is not a home, and fire stings flesh and bones.
She is thirteen when she is first approached.
"Hello," a voice rings. The night is dark and her eyes unseeing, and when she responds she feels cold down to her bones.
"Who’s there?" she asks, holding her stance, one hand grasping the silver cross hanging from her neck, halting the words threatening to spill from her tongue, but allowing a simple: "What do you want?"
There is a cackle, a flash of light in the darkness, and then: "The question is, what do you want?" The voice purrs, no form in sight, and the hairs on the back of her neck rise, "and what are you willing to give for it?"
For a moment, the world is still. And then: "I don’t know."
The voice laughs.
*
This is how it starts: She is six and she sees things others can’t seem to. Sees shadows in the dark, and clear reflections in muddy water. The other kids don’t understand and she’s too frightened to tell any adults until the day a creature with slimy skin and pointy teeth smiles menacingly at her from across the lake and she runs home to momma in tears.
Momma tells her it’s their little secret, pinching her toes until she giggles, and makes a zipping motion across her mouth. Momma throws away the invisible key and proceeds to show her how to overlook some of the things she sees, reading from an old book she’s never seen on the shelf.
Momma helps; Momma hinders.
*
It’s a gift, her mother teaches, fingers spinning webs only she can see, mouth always lifted in a half-smile.
It’s a curse, she learns—after shadows become hidden smiles and snickers disguise themselves as sudden gusts of wind only she ever seems to hear.
*
This is how it ends: She’s nineteen and hopeless, orphaned with her insides burnt out. It ends in persecution, in having to move halfway across the world. It ends in traveling—fleeing—to America in an old boat with her Momma’s book held tightly to her chest.
It ends in fire; it ends in death.
It ends in heartbreak; it ends in relief.
Her Momma’s end is her beginning, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.
*
She makes a life for herself, ignores like her mother taught her and practices as her mother warned her. She buys new clothes and loses her accent; marries a farm boy who knows nothing more than the town he grew up in, who wants nothing more than a wife and children.
She blends in perfectly; she hates it terribly.
*
She’s sitting in their field—twenty-two now with calloused hands to show for it, and a life so gray compared to its past purples and blues. The sun shines on her face, eyes closed and breaths shallow, when she hears a voice she hasn’t heard in nearly a decade speak through the wind blowing by her ear. "My my," it purrs, hot where her bones have gone cold, "it has been a while. Have you finally decided what to offer to finish our deal?"
The voice is a hiss through the trees, the growing of grass beneath her fingertips.
She doesn’t even open her eyes, only hums in response. Wind blows her brown hair in her face, a sharp snap is made in the distance, and when she finally opens darkness is all she sees.
She smiles, sitting up and turning to face her house, and laughs.
Because gears are turning, events changing, and for once in her life she is not afraid to let the words her mother taught her slip from her mouth.
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Mary Sims is an 18-year-old aspiring poet and writer who loves reading, writing, philosophy, tea, and the color blue. She spends her days dreaming of writing beloved poetry and living in the mountains with her family and friends close by.
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