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Riley Scott
Into the Mud Moving out of the sun into the shade, she stumbled into a patch of deep mud. She’d gone on a walk alone to count her blessings. Rain, kisses, chocolate, her brother, her sister, computers. But now the rose-pink petal of her own round ass was sinking ever closer to the brown. The turn of events upset her. Memory persisted. Invisible boys, invincible girls, warty women wearing coarse wigs, conniving gentlemen, an old couple still in love: all people she once knew arriving now to see her off. Her mouth twisted at the sight of their earthen faces.
“Go away,” she grumbled. “It’s so hot, I’m sinking into mud, and not one of you can help me.”
The boys, girls, women, and men stayed put. A hot wind tousled everyone’s hair. In unison they sang:
Your lover was once a child. See them as such.
Time is not something you waste. Embryo, cloud, moving woman.
You want the children to play. You want the children to play. But the kids sit still as stones, thinking.
The mud circled her hips. Out of sheer panic, she entirely misunderstood what the people were singing.
“Why are you criticising me? I haven’t done anything wrong.” The faces had vanished. Their songs echoed in the air, and she finally understood. Faster and faster she sank.
“The city should really do something about this. There shouldn’t be holes in public parks deep enough to swallow someone.”
Yet there she was. Mud squelched around her neck. Her head felt full of cotton. It really was a hot day. She should’ve gone to the beach. A dip in the ocean would have been a better use of her time, but she never was a good swimmer. And it’s all swimming.
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