the glass hearts

ONCE there was a kingdom of glass heart people.

They were very proud of the music that they heard in their ears, whenever they moved: they said it sounded like wind chimes wrapped in silk; or like ghosts playing marimba; or like drowned men dropping bells underwater. Most of their composers tried to mimic the sounds they heard, but it was a music that could not be shared. Each person heard only their own music.

Most of them died young.

There were three sisters who became philosophers together, who learned that their hearts had been shattered at birth. They realized that the music that rang in their ears was really the sound of chips and chunks of glass rattling and singing against each other. And the pieces of glass were cutting into them as they moved, biting into their organs until they bled.

The middle sister was frightened. So she swept up all the pieces of her heart that she could find and put them into a small box; they glittered and shivered at her. And she closed them up carefully in a little drawer, and locked it with a little key, and went on about her work safely. Sometimes she would remember a snatch of the sparkling music she had once heard, and feel wistful, but she never unlocked the little drawer. And she lived a long life, although she was not much loved by the glass heart people.

The youngest sister was brave—or perhaps she was foolish. In fact she was not much of a true philosopher at all; most of her thoughts were tangled up in fairy tales, for she had a great love of stories and sought out tales from all over the world. “I have read of a man who mends things,” she said to her sisters. “Let us go find him; perhaps he can help us.” But her sisters were not willing. So she went by herself. It was not much trouble she had in the finding of him, for the kingdom he lived in was nearby; and she found him there by a lake, mending nets. And the man agreed to help her. Her heart was in so many pieces that it hurt a great deal, and in the end he said it could not be mended. He gave her a new heart, and would take no payment for it. 

The new heart was made of something softer and warmer than glass, and would not shatter, but it gave her trouble and pain all her life; when she returned home her sisters shook their heads at her foolishness, and would not go to the man themselves.

The eldest sister was the wisest of the three. “It is the brokenness that makes our hearts sing so beautifully,” she said. She put her thoughts into a book of poems, which were set to music by one of the foremost composers; although, she said, the music was not anything so beautiful as the chiming and shattering she heard in her own ears. The poems and songs were much loved by all of the glass heart people, and when she died a year later they did not forget her for a long time.

A Story

Once there was a woman who could have no children. This woman knew a little of witchcraft; one day she closed her eyes, whispered a secret word her grandmother had taught her, and spit into her palm. When she opened her eyes she saw, sitting in her hand, a tiny pearly frog. The frog stared at her with pale, blank eyes. Then it slid out of her cupped hand and hopped across the floor, leaving behind it a slick trail that gleamed like moonlight. The woman chased after the frog, but it crept under the door and disappeared before she could catch it. The strings of slime gleamed like strange writing on the floor. The woman thought there were secrets in it, but she did not know how to read them.

The next day the woman closed her eyes, whispered the secret word twice more, and spit into her hand again. This time she clenched her stomach and spit out thick black chyme, sour-smelling and bitter. When she opened her eyes, it had become a tiny green snake with transparent wings. The snake's shining green scales were hooked and bit into the soft skin of her palm; its belly was hot and burned her hand. She shook her hand; the worm spread its soft wings and fluttered unsteadily to the window. It flew out. Her hand was red and hot, and spotted with tiny holes where red beads of blood welled up. There were, she thought, secrets behind the pattern; but she could not understand them.

On the third day the woman closed her eyes one more time. This time she said the secret word three times, very loud. When she spit into her hand she tasted the angry sharpness of blood. She spit out the blood into her palm, along with a tiny round hard thing like a stone. When she opened her eyes she saw that the round thing was her heart. It was black. She pressed her finger to it, gently, and it blinked a dark eye at her. She saw that her heart was like a tiny lizard curled in on itself. The lizard did not uncurl; it closed its dark eye again and curled up tighter and tighter, until it disappeared. She was left with dark blood smeared across her palm. She could feel blood cracking and peeling stickily from the corners of her mouth; and inside her chest she felt the blank spot where her heart had been.

FLASH FICTION

You can really learn a lot from the Internet. It was a lot simpler than I anticipated – the skin, making the face expressive, was the hardest part. I couldn’t resist adding half a cup size, although I did precisely recreate my crooked ear. After a week of tests I was satisfied the thing would run smoothly. Would handle the customer service calls according to protocol. Would never misfile records on purpose. Would handle loans with equanimity and speed, reducing human stories to series of numbers contained within beige folders, filed with a thousand folders just the same. I was sure it would notice the oppressive wall of grey and white winter unaffected. Would cook supper, eat one full helping of my husband’s favourite dishes, never obsess over getting fat. Already, I noticed, the thing always remembered to shower, trim its nails, apply antibiotic to minor wounds. It didn’t seem lonely; it never cried. It did the laundry as soon as the hamper filled.  The thing was perfect. I put on my oldest black tshirt and my heaviest shoes. I cut off my long hair and hid it at the bottom of the trashcan. I took six boxes of books and two notebooks and all the pens I could find. I took my keys off the hook while he was at school. I’m driving south now. Even though it’s March and freezing I have the windows down, wondering if I miss the feeling of my long hair blowing across my face. I’m probing at the edges of the strange feeling in my chest, worrying it like a new filling. I’m driving lightweight, not sure if I feel free or empty, waiting. I want another hole in my ear. I wonder if he minds that I’m gone. I eat too little, drink gallons of black coffee and diet soda. I’ve never been west, never seen the desert. I wonder if it’s happy. I’ve never seen the west coast. 

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