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Pif Magazine
ISSN: 1094-2726
Published by:
Pif, LLC
PMB 248
4820 Yelm Hwy SE
Suite B
Lacey, WA 98503-4903
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| PAST MACRO-FICTION | MORE FICTION |
"He is sensitive," I said. I looked past Dad to Grayson's little figure. Where the back of his neck met his shirt the skin had turned red, and he walked crookedly, still holding onto Cara's hand. Marriage, I thought. A permanent flight. I thought of packing oranges for soccer halftimes, meeting Grayson alone after school, the days and hours left undone. I thought of Grayson's still-round face and how it screwed up when he was trying to make sense of something. I thought of the coolness of wind from the sea.
And then I saw all of us, my family, around the glass table on the porch my dad had built. I saw us playing hearts in the early evening, in that cool sweet swirling air, playing hearts all four of us, the rhythm of moving around the circle and putting down our cards blending with the rhythm of the ocean spread out before us, the swath of blue-gray water endlessly sweeping the shore. The ice cubes in Dad's gin and tonic clinked in his glass, and Grayson bounced up and down in his seat. Mom was winning, and as she stretched out her hand to bring in a trick, Dad caught it. "I have a new name for you, pretty girl, card shark," he said.
She looked at him. "Which one is it?"
"Pretty," he said, "pretty," and he pulled her up from her seat and kissed her. They leaned together across the table, the wind blowing in their hair, blond against blond in front of us. When they sat down Dad was grinning and Mom's ears were bright red. She smiled as she picked up her cards, and her whole face opened up, like a new world.
* * *
Dad and I had reached the sign for the trailhead. We were just standing there in front of it, an old brown post in the brown of the desert. Dust burned in my throat. I could feel the pores tightening on my face, making my skin hot and scaly, trapping dirt inside. Grayson and Cara had stopped up ahead of us. I lifted my arm to shrug off Dad's hand.
That's when the Colima came out of the scrub a few yards up the trail. Like it had planned it: I heard the call Dad had played from the bird tape in camp, saw Cara grab her glasses in one swift motion, Dad break into a run from where he stood next to me. Grayson was there, but I stood as if frozen. I had no binoculars. It was in the light staring stark against the sage and I couldn't see a thing, not even a shadow, and the bushes rustled a little and the bird flew.
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Dylan Nelson grew up in Charleston, South Carolina. She currently studies fiction writing at the University of Oregon.