THE BABY POOL
I want to fly like a snail. Yes, snails fly in their minds, so does the brain of the ocean.
Does a man want to drown in the ersatz desire?
You must understand me. I know you and I swam together. They call it escape velocity. You, were the expatriate, calling yourself “Moondoggie.” All the Roxie girls on the beach desired you. Me, a strange expatriate. No, not a blonde girl named Gidget.
The sea was black that day and the sky a mass of condensed vapor. Yet, somehow I pulled a boy to a deep, forming swell and spoke to him: “Hold your breath and go under the wave.”
“I don't swim with black fish.” The boy lied, smiling to his friends, waving with one wrist like a windshield wiper moves in the rain. He kept trying to move back to the drunk dots on the sand. The boy was afraid. I could tell.
I kept a firm grip on his foot. The next dark envelope started to fold.
“Watch me.” I told him.
I pushed my head under the ocean disguise, pulling him close. Deep we went. I could feel a man trust me below a vigorous excavating waterspout… our bodies together as one in our minds. Grabbing his middle with my lips, I blew as best I could with what short time I had. I knew the man craved nourishment and liked my milk.
I could tell by the way he closed his eyes. Thrusting under my warm blanket until a kernel popped. A wet push for us to a cream foam, surface release.
The boys watching from the shore jealous of our wave. Tossing together as plugs on a solarium, hydrated platform for all to see. No, I was not ashamed. The man belonged to me. The sea.
Yet, phlebitis is inevitable for the weak of heart. The boy pretended to choke and came too soon, spitting water from his teeth. He grabbed his slip-and-slide and ran to his buddies on the dirt.
Moondoggie-babe, you still have not learned how to fool Mother Nature. Thank God you're still alive…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
EMERGENCY STABLE
I don't see you. Is it you Daddy? Say yes.
My hand reaches for him. The orange hot prong licks me from behind. Dad? Daddy? The barn is burning! The smoke is thick near the pen. A doe cries and rams the old wood gate. Her fawn already dead with the mother's love. I am too burned to open the gate.
Come here, child, you seem tired. I can ease your pain… let you rest. Sit with me, relax a bit.
“Where is my Dad? Why can't I hear him? I want my father.”
I hear you and understand your dilemma. Girl, listen to me instead
“No, I cannot exhale anymore. Daddy, why won't you help me?” Fire burns my red ass. Father does not speak to me. I still cannot see him.
“Come, child, breathe” I feel a needle prick my arm. A thin, plastic cord on my vein.
Pump…pump…
I know what to do—stuff a large handful of hay in my mouth. Good girl. Hold it. Close your eyes. Do not exhale. Good vain girl. Keep holding.
“Shit… She's coding.” Nurse Lucy watches lines falling on a screen.
No, they will never catch me.
“Come on, breathe!” Doctor Zhivago screams in my ear. Father stares from behind the glass.
No, they cannot catch me.
“She's drowning…” Nurse Lucy watches the doctor beat my chest.
I run through the amber.
“Let her go,” Father finally yells. Of course, they do not let go.
“1, 2, 3…clear!” Doctor Zhivago starts to defibrillate my sternum.
“1, 2, 3…breathe!” Chest thump. Burn…burn.
“Doctor, she's still drowning.”
“Lucy…what do you want me to do? Choke her?”
“Come on girl breathe! Come on, breathe!” More burns.
I race through the amber. No, they cannot catch me.
“Let her go,” Father whispers from behind the glass.
My cheeks puffed. A resin dust behind me. I stare at myself when I know it is safe. The girl's face a charred turtle shell. Her spirit removed. A smile relieved.
No, they never catch me.
• Ginnetta Correli is the author of a soon to be released novel called the Lost Episodes of Beatie Scareli. You can find out what it's about at http://beatiescareli.com Some of Ginnetta's writing will appear soon in print at Diet Soap. She lives near Las Vegas and works at some of the hotels on the Strip.
