Fiction: Dog Days

[silverflight8]

 

None of us really understood Mira. She was That Girl who had transferred to the school in late spring, and rumours had swirled around her as they do about all mysterious transferees. Thrown out of school, horrible tragedy, or even worse—divorced parents—the theories abounded, and we relished sharing them. She refused to play the same games we did, ignoring the girls, and tromped with the boys; looking back, I think we were jealous, and retaliated by excluding her from our parties and teas and sleepovers. She was unfazed, and for the rest of the school year, we more or less forgot her, pretending she didn’t exist.

            In the summer, though, when most of my playmates had left for the cooler temperatures of the mountains, we couldn’t be choosy about who to play with. At first, I tried to play with my younger sister; after few days broiling in the heat with a rising temper, I finally gave up with wandering around and playing with babyish stuffed animals. I pulled my sister outside one afternoon, despite her sullenness.

            “Mary-Anna, don’t be such a…a prissy cry-baby. We’re just going to go walk to the road. Now, come on,” and dragged her along. She argued with me the whole way there, and I was short-tempered by the time we’d gotten there.

            My sister and I found Mira squatting near a puddle. It had just rained, and the dead heat of the summer sun had disappeared temporarily with the drizzle. She looked up as we cautiously approached, her black eyes strange.

“What are you doing?” I accused, looking up and down the road. There was no one else around, and the gravel path was still slick with water. Mira shrugged and looked into the puddle of water, silent.

I came closer, putting my head over to see what was in the puddle. It was only water, reflecting our distorted images. “What are you doing?”

“Scrying,” she said matter-of-factly. She was still looking into the water, as though there was something in there. I looked again, found nothing, and stood up, intending to leave. My sister grabbed my arm as the clouds moved and the sun came out, reflecting blindingly off the water.

“What is it?” I asked irritably, trying to walk.

“There-there’s something in the puddle,” she half-whispered. And I, unable to control my curiosity, approached the puddle again. As the red and green residue in my eyes cleared, I saw what my sister had seen a glimpse of. Our reflections were not there; even the sensation that the scene was in water was gone.

I would like to tell you what I saw, but I cannot remember; all that comes to mind are scattered, red-tinted snippets of people and places I thought I’d seen, and a frightening feeling of everything confused and a chaos of motion.

Mira broke the scry—if that was really what it was—by pushing me aside and stomping in the puddle. It seemed to me as though the world had shattered then, and I was stunned for a moment.

“You should go,” said Mira. The clouds were gone, and the sun was searing hot; I knew we’d have sunburns tomorrow. The heat was rising and making my brain slow, but unsettled by the feeling of déjà vu, I dragged my sister along the road back home. She wouldn’t stop asking what I’d seen.

“I don’t know,” I said mechanically, and my sudden reserve seemed to frighten her, because she said nothing until we were both home.

 

 

Mira left our town before the new school year began, and as I avoided the road where I’d seen the scry all summer, I saw her only in passing. It had disturbed me more than I cared to admit.

It would be easy to say that an incident in my childhood shaped me immeasurably—isn’t that what those legends say? The truth was, though, that I never thought about Mira—or even that summer—for years; gradually, the memory of that summer blurred into other memories. And yet--my eyes are weak and clouded now, but sometimes when I look in the mirror, Mira’s face is reflected back.



---

As far as influences go...I think anyone who's read Madeline L'Engle's A Swiftly Tilting Planet probably remembers that scry scene. Oh, and also the hopeless racism portrayed in Who Has Seen the Wind.

 

Comments

[mister-troper.livejournal.com]

Hi, I'm one of your editors, swinging in a bit late this week.

"tromped with the boys" - verb choice?

"from our parties and teas and sleepovers" - This is a perfect example of how to break grammar and do it right. It captures the childishness while still being understandable, and rings true in the way that proper grammar wouldn't.

"when most of my playmates had left for the cooler temperatures of the mountains, we couldn’t be choosy about who to play with." - Shift in the person (I/We).

"I finally gave up with wandering around " - I think you can nix the 'with,' or at least I sense there's something missing in the sentence or phrasing.

'“Scrying,” she said matter-of-factly. " - Awesome.

"As the red and green residue in my eyes cleared" - I don't exactly follow. If you mean the transition from light to dark, I've never heard that referred to as "residue." Residue implies substance, and it's not clear before what substance is there.

Overall, this one would make for a really good opener. It engages the first person well and keeps things just creepy enough. And, most important, there's actual action and conflict, which stands it out over a lot of similar short form.

[silverflight8.livejournal.com]

Thanks for the edit - you're right, there isn't much of a physical residue left behind. The perception of residue? Anyhow, thanks for taking the time; I'm glad you liked it.