ࡱ> gifU  Jbjbjnn 4xaa B>>>>>RRRR$R*     &*(*(*(*(*(*(*$k-!0bL*>L*>>  a*> > &*&*$h% ǭg"%*w*0*%040 %0>%8L*L**0B : NYMPHS By Jordan Carter West Virginia Fiction Competition, 2nd Place Winner Selected by Crystal Wilkinson Crystal Wilkinson wrote the following critique of Carters story. Below is both the critique and the revised version of the story: I enjoyed reading your story so much. Your writing is so beautiful throughout. I found your story highly engaging and original. I was taken with the world you have created. I found the greatest challenge to your story hinged, however, in the narrative arc. The narrative structure felt more like a novel than a short story. Youve created an entire world here with a plethora of possibilities; perhaps it covered too much ground for a short story this length. Think about the pacing of the story and the ground a short story allows you to cover. I did really love it and had never read anything like it before. Thank you for submitting it! Bravo! Baptism is meant for the living, but Daddy said God would understand. After those babies were born dead, the caul still covering their faces, Sunday and Daddy carried them gently the half-mile to the creek, cupped one each in the fronts of their t-shirts. Ma had only looked at the babies tiny hands, their tiny feet, before she turned her face away. The creek bed was orange. Sunday and Daddy stomped down the reeds and laid the babies side by side on the bank, curled as they must have been within the womb. Sunday plucked wild aster and Daddy broke twigs to fashion together a cross. He whittled the wood with his pocketknife, his hands shaking, and when he nicked his thumb, he sucked away the blood, his eyes wet and distant. Daddy stuck the cross in the soft earth between the bodies and Sunday sprinkled the aster in a semi-circle around them. The cicadas screamed in the trees like they knew they would die soon, and their babies, like white-looking ants, would crawl into the ground before they emerged as nymphs. Daddy stepped into the creek, shoes and all, where the water rushed around his shins. He held out his arms to Sunday, who picked up the first baby. He was careful with her. She was the size of a squash and still slick with blood. Sunday carried her to the edge of the creek bank, and when her body left his hands and entered into Daddys, he saw in Daddys face a man he did not know. Daddy cradled her and laid her back in the creek where the water rushed fast and white. It first washed away the blood, and then, it tore away the caul. As Daddy raised her up from the water, she came alive, her eyes open and locked on Sundays. Those eyesnot quite the color of Mas or Daddys and nowhere near his ownhad melted pupils, probably from all the heat of Mas insides. Sundays heart skipped in his chest. He didnt know much about baptism, but he knew it had something to do with resurrection. Daddy passed the baby back across the creek to Sunday. Sunday snatched her up and held her tight against his chest and shivered. Her wet skin touched his through his t-shirt, rinsing the blood there to the hem. Sunday drew the t-shirt from where it was stuck to his belly and patted her face dry. Daddy motioned for Sunday to hand him the other baby. Sunday hoisted the baby he was holding up over his shoulder and patted her bottom, whispering shh, shh even though she made no noise. He bent down and tried to scoop up the other baby one-handed. Lay her down now, Sunday, Daddy said. By now, the sun had risen to the center of the sky, and it burned hot at their backs. Daddy splashed water on his face, and Sunday tried to wipe sweat from his forehead as he clambered with the babies. He got the second baby off the ground and up onto his hip, but when he tried to cradle her, she slipped and bounced to the ground like shed fruit. Daddy sloshed out of the water, gripping at the creek bank to keep steady. He grimaced. Blood showed on his teeth. He stood over Sunday, his pant legs dripping. Sh-sh-shell be okay, Sunday shook his head and his teeth chattered. R-r-resurrection. Sunday patted the baby he held between her shoulders to show Daddy that he could do it right, but Daddy reached for her and Sunday crushed her to his chest and jerked away. Sunday hiccupped and shook his head no over and over again like he had when Daddy wouldnt let him keep the dead fish he found on the shore of Teter Creek. Then Sunday stumbled backward over the cross and heard it snap. He broke for a run, but Daddy caught his elbow. Face to face with his Daddy, Sundays breath came hot and jagged. Angry tears spilled down his cheeks. There was nowhere for Sunday to run. Shes gone, Sunday. She been gone. Daddy released his grip on Sundays elbow and guided Sundays hand to support the babys head from where it had been jostled, lying limp and to the side. Instead of taking the baby, Daddy laid his fingers on her eyelids and slid them closed. So she can rest, he said. Then, he picked up the baby who had fallen and lumbered back into the creek. * * * Daddy knew he had dug the hole deep enough when the shovel hit the metal box. He dug the babies graves in the same place he had buried Sundays umbilical cord so Sunday would always stay tied to the land. The sun had dried their shirts stiff, Daddys now soaked between the shoulders with sweat. He stood stoic; the babies lay naked at his feet. Do you remember where to find the pokeberries? Daddy asked. The ones with the red vines? Sunday asked. Thats right. Bring me back two bunches. Sunday followed deer droppings east through the weeds toward the clearing and picked two clusters of pokeberries there. When an overripe berry burst between his fingers, he felt bad for squishing all those female cicadas earlier that summer. He took the long way back to the creek, pokeberries in his pockets, passed the garage where Daddy cut pieces of plywood into jagged hearts. Sunday and Daddy crushed the pokeberries and dipped each of the babys feet in the purple-black juice and pressed them to the plywood. The second baby went in the ground first so she could be closer to Heaven and the baby Sunday had held could be closer to Earth. As Daddy moved to cover the second baby with dirt, Sunday asked Daddy to remove her caul. Sunday couldnt look, but Daddy said she had twin eyes. Long after Daddy had gone inside to tend to Ma, Sunday remained by the graves, waiting for the babies to emerge as nymphs. * * * Ma was sick. Sunday knew this because Daddy fed her Fish Mox, big cream-colored capsules three times a day. Fish amoxicillin is the same as people amoxicillin, Daddy said, and Sunday wondered what Ma was sick withDropsy or Fin Rot or Red Pest like the bottle said the pills could cure. Mas milk was coming in. It leaked in circles onto her nightgown. She asked Sunday to pick a cabbage from the garden and put it in the freezer to help dry up her milk. Sunday watched flies lay eggs on the afterbirth, a sheath of Ma and the babies left drying in the sun. He made a wide berth around where it lay. He pulled the leafiest summer cabbage from its roots, soil sprinkling his feet, and carried it under his arm like a basketball. He noticed the pumpkin plants had bloomed butter yellow flowers, and he plucked them from their vines, cupping the wrinkled, star-shaped petals in his dirty hands. He circled the spot again and crossed the heat-burnt grass back to the house. On the porch, he lifted the lid of the deep freeze with his hip, lifted his arm, let the cabbage drop inside, and let the lid slam shut. He pushed the screen door open with his back and went to the kitchen. He uncupped his hands into a glass bowl on the counter and baptized the pumpkin flowers with tap water. Then he set the bowl on Mas nightstand. The flowers half floated like the babies had in her belly. They wouldnt be having pumpkins this year. Each day, three times a day, Sunday pulled two cold cabbage leaves from the head and gave them to Ma. In return, she took two warm and wilted cabbage leaves from her breasts and placed them in his hands. Like the cabbage leaves, the pumpkin flowers too went soggy, and Sunday threw them all over the back porch banister. The first time he gave Ma the cabbage, he noticed her belly, round enough the babies could have still been inside, only shrunk smaller. Her extra skin puckered like a raisin around her belly button, and her belly shrunk smaller and smaller until it sagged and there was no room left for the babies, even in his imagination. Hardly had enough to feed you, and now . . . Ma said. She looked down at her breasts, swollen under the cabbage cups, her body ready to give milk to the babies who couldnt eat. Sunday wondered if it was his fault, if his sin had somehow hurt those babies. * * * Theyd had no rain, and the smell of blood was attracting coyotes. Sunday awoke in the dark to the sound of them, their paws crunching the dry, scorched grass. He imagined them, circling upright on their hind legs, paws to the moon, eyes white in the dark. He imagined them coming back for the babies, digging them up like turnips and carrying them off by their necks into the dark. * * * Sunday missed the way he and Ma spent last summer and the summer before that, overturning rocks at the creek looking for salamanders, skipping stones, and catching toads. They had eaten cold sliced watermelon Ma wrapped in tin foil, and they had splashed in the water, squishing creek scum between their toes. But now Ma spent all day in her bedroom, not even leaving to eat or to shower. Sunday had begun to slip notes under her bedroom door, but she hadnt sent one back. Sunday spent each day searching the creek for the caul, but the late-June rains had finally come and the creek ran muddy. Sunday stripped off his shoes and socks, dropped them at the edge of the bank, and slogged downstream. He waded through the widest part of the creek and sprawled on a flat rock in the middle. Even though the sun was dipping below the trees, the rock still held its heat. He lay on his back with his arms spread wide, his eyes closed, listening to the creek rush by. He imagined the current growing stronger and stronger until it uprooted the rock that held the caul under the muddy water. Shrieks of laughter cut through the woods, and Sunday heard twigs snap in the distance. He opened his eyes and shot upright on the rock. In the half-light, he watched the Thomas boys bound across the creek upstream. They were shirtless blurs that hollered when their boots clapped into the mud on the other bank. There were four of them, all pigeon-chested with hair shaved down to the scalp, except for the oldest, who grew a rat-tail down his neck. He patted his pants pockets and withdrew a rolled cigarette, lit it, and put it to his lips. He had a thin line of hair above his top lip or perhaps, Sunday thought, it was dirt. The oldest Thomas boy passed the cigarette to his brothers who were perched together on a rock, all of them unlacing their work boots. Sunday could only tell two of them apart by a burn one had, his skin thick and wrinkled on one half of his head where Sunday imagined his hair would never grow. The three boys clawed for the cigarette hungrily, and one, the youngest, looked not much older than Sunday. He had a handkerchief stuck in his waistband and as he tilted his head back to take a drag from the cigarette, the last of the days sun fell through the treetops and onto the purple bruise beneath his eye. He blew smoke, then pointed the cigarette at Sunday on the rock. You that mommas boy, right? he said. Sunday shook his head like he didnt know what the Thomas boy was talking about. Yeah, thats right. You that mommas boy, another chimed in. He took the cigarette from his brother, the end still wet with spit. Sunday stood on the rock, trying to get his sea legs. It was getting late. Ma would be expecting him. He took an uneasy step toward his shoes on the bank, which was an uneasy step toward the Thomas boys. The one with the cigarette followed Sundays line of sight and took a step toward Sundays shoes, too. Sunday took another, and then the Thomas boy made a mad dash. Sunday leapt from the rock and into the creek, splashing through the water upstream, and he and the Thomas boy collided at the edge of the bank. As Sundays eyes adjusted to the evening light, he saw his sneakers, ratty and old, their soles caked in mud and the Thomas boys fingers curled around them, his fingernails long and jagged. Aw, are these your shoes? the Thomas boy taunted. He dangled them from their laces above Sundays head, and as Sunday jumped to reach them, the end of the cigarette grazed his arm. Sunday winced and covered the burn with his hand. The woods began to feel thick in the dark. You can have your shoes back if you can bag a ring-neck pheasant, the oldest Thomas boy said. He shot a smirk back at his brothers and tossed the sneakers to them. The brothers passed the shoes back and forth over Sundays head. Sunday jumped for the shoes, his hands outstretched, until he lost his breath. Whats a ring-neck pheasant? Sunday panted. Youll know it when you see it, the oldest Thomas boy said. Well run him to you. Wh-wheres my gun? Sunday asked. The Thomas boys laughed and one of the brothers said, Youre catching, not killing. A ring-neck pheasant can smell your momma on you a mile away, the oldest Thomas boy said. One of the brothers pretended to rub his pregnant belly and the other put two circles over his eyes with his hands like glasses. He put a hand between his brothers thighs and pretended to lick his fingers. So strip, the oldest Thomas boy said. Sunday shook his head no. Hed been naked in the woods before, but never without shoes. Just keep them, Sunday said and took a step toward home. The youngest Thomas boy tossed the shoes to his brother and stepped in Sundays path. They were chest to chest. I said strip, said the oldest Thomas boy. His breath was dry, hot and close. Sunday tasted stale smoke. The Thomas brothers flanked him. The one with the burn twisted a fallen tree branch and smacked it in his open palm. The other bent down and pulled something from his boot. The edge of a knife flashed in the moonlight. Sundays heart thrummed in his throat. He stripped down to his underwear, balled his clothes under his arm, and covered his chest. The oldest Thomas boy motioned with his hand and said Give em here. When Sunday held out his clothes, one of the brothers called, Get his drawers, too! and the brothers charged Sunday, cutting his underwear away with the knife. The youngest one grabbed the underwear and ran, trailing them behind him like a white flag without the surrender. Sunday stood with his hands cupped between his legs, shivering. The knife had nicked his thighs, and blood trickled down to his ankles. Look! one of the brothers said. His skins the color of a ring-neck pheasant! I aint no Sunday said, before the oldest Thomas boy grabbed him by the back of the neck and drug him away from the creek and into the thicket, where thorns tore at his chest and he felt the sting of nettles. The Thomas boy spun him around by his shoulders and shoved him to his knees on the forest floor, then left him there to catch the ring-neck pheasant. The clouds blotted out the moon. From the ground, Sunday could only make out the twisting branches of the rhododendron in the dark, taller than he remembered, long like the Thomas boys fingers. He heard their laughter in the direction of home. The woods closed in on him. Welts of poison ivy rose like lashes on his skin and the soft meat of his thighs stung. Mosquitoes droned at the back of his neck and he slapped at them wildly with both hands. He slapped at them like they were the Thomas boys, and he slapped until his skin burned and he let out a full-throated scream. Sunday remembered what Daddy had told him about never being truly alone in the woods. He heard the rustle of underbrush and laughter, like music, cutting through the still air. The leaves began to shake as two tall, slender, naked bodies emerged from behind the rhododendron. They covered their mouths but not their breasts with their tiny hands and tittered, touching foreheads. They waded through the rhododendron blooms and motioned for Sunday to follow before they disappeared into the brush. Sunday followed them through the rhododendrons to the creek. There they crouched, their knees pressed in the mossy bank, their voices lilting along with the water. They wore crowns of aster and they braided one anothers hair, the color of honey, long and flowing to their waists. Sunday expected their hair to be dark, like Mas, but there was no mistaking them. 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