Blue Flag 2020

ARIANA BLAUSTEIN An excerpt from her science fiction novel

I run my fingers along the rusted metal. The chains shudder. This swing-set is tired and stiff. The metal is kindly cool in this Arizona sun. I brush the dirt off the plastic seat and lower myself into the swing. Foreign, I think, to be so grown.

My mind wanders thinking of my lanky body and I begin to feel myself lengthening in the low-set swing. Stop, focus, I think, I am swinging. The creaking of chains reminds me of twisted arms, driving to the emergency room. In my ears, I hear chattering nurses, beeping machines, and screaming behind curtains. I clear my throat and the screaming stops, was that me?

I drop the swing’s chains, and refocus. Almost lazily, I walk through the backyard. Familiar yellow patches of grass. I am near the house, the peeling red door frame becomes clearer.

Now I am in the garden, one foot in ripe tomatoes. The memory hits and I am six again, sobbing, my mother’s red gloves pulled loosely over my tiny hands. I have pulled all of the budding tomatoes instead of the weeds. No, with effort I drag my mind back to the previous scene. I am seventeen again, but the tomatoes beneath my feet are ragged and dead. I look around the rest of the garden. Mainly vegetables, except for her patch of daisies. I hear her in my ears, “there should always be a little beauty among the practical.”

Mom’s lilac watering can appears on the cobblestone to my left. Balled water dribbles down the side. My heart flutters, could she be here this time? Loud barking sounds from inside the house, the scrapping of paws against hardwood floors, and Arthur bounds into the garden. He throws himself on top of me the way used to, but now he only reaches my hips. You used to be so big, I think. Instantly, he triples in size. I fall to 94