Serena

by Dasherly Quinn

Serena didn't just walk; she floated. It was a strange way to move for one so large; it would seem, at first, second, and even third glance, that the rolls of flesh that fell over her distended abdomen and hung from her arms, chin, and thighs would sink into the earth, at least by the laws of physics (those darn laws of physics, the reason teacups and turnips so stubbornly refuse to float). Surely something in there must dictate that the corpulent walk slowly, submerging into the ground with every step. But her step was light and unmistakable, graceful and tranquil, as though tiny bubbles were lifting her arms and helping balance out the sheer mass of her body.

It was enough to elicit glances wherever she went - when holding a kiwi between her fingers in the produce section, smelling it for ripeness, testing the flesh for softness indicating sweetness; leaning in to inhale a pink rose from an Asian vendor, the delicate scent enveloping her, subtle and sweet but divine; trying on a pair of high heels at the store, heels not so thin they'd snap but thinner than the clerk would have recommended - the color of rosewater (the palest of pinks) and the texture of satin. But on that morning, she was doing none of those things. The roses were bought and sitting atop her nightstand, the kiwis were sitting atop one another in a wicker basket on her marble kitchen counter, and the shoes were resting in her closet and shimmering softly, the envy of sneaker and pump and slipper. She was thumbing through a novel (a worn copy of Mrs. Dalloway, to be specific; though onlookers would later swear it was a dog-eared Bible, a French-English dictionary, and a biography of Oscar Wilde, among other things), resting on a bench by the park, listening to the hum of winged insects thrumming their legs together, a background drone that surrounded her with a gentle vibration that blocked out the world and comforted her greatly.

It was subtly that the noise changed, suddenly that the humming became slightly more intense. Her ear pricked at the difference, and she stood, coming to her feet with that grace she was so recognized for. She looked down the path, wondering where the sound was coming from. Ragged mothers with strollers and joggers with headphones passed by, and for a moment the sound was lost in the sound of crunching gravel and piercing infant wails.

She took a step, and it began again, this time sending a fine vibration purring along her skin. She rubbed her arms and took another step. The sensation intensified. She took another. She began to walk - no, float - along, searching for the source of the sound, nameless but real.

The sound of her feet on loose pebbles and the cries of birds and bursts of laughter were suddenly distant, and the sun overwhelmed the sky, much too bright for a morning sun. She felt agile and light, ethereal, even. She was being lifted. She was being held.

Her feet began to glide against the ground - first only the soles; but then, as she was lifted higher, only her toes were skimming the earth and then suddenly she was up, over the ground, people staring and whispering and trying to decide what was more fantastic - the fact that this woman s fleshy face was glowing with a beautiful serenity or that she was spiraling upward from the earth, a joyful laughter coming from between her lips and softly meandering to earth below where the mundane sat and watched.

All over the city, a sharply exhaled breath rose from the pavement. White sheets being hung from clotheslines in manicured backyards suddenly swelled and billowed, and shot into the sky, snapping twine, smarting fingers, and breaking wooden pins in half. Startled housewives rubbed their raw hands and watched the sheets arch and float and strain, twisting in the air in a strange dance. Girls pressed hands down onto skirts that were suddenly liberated from their own weight and watched as clothes and sheets and curtains free from their drying places flapped like tired albatrosses against the sky, soaring past windowsills and kissing rooftops and hovering for a few moments above the building tops before sinking, defeated by gravity, into tree limbs and onto tar beaches, covering dirty blacktop and old striped awnings with blouses and bras and slipcovers the color of cream, falling down in front of unmoving feet.

And still Serena continued to climb.

The laughter became fainter, and the onlookers strained, visibly, to listen to the last carefree echo that lazily drifted to the ground like a long ribbon, released from above. Her body became smaller as it rose, soon no more than a memory (one, that people would later swear, never really happened) against the glassy, cloudless sky.

On the park bench, a paperback sat ownerless, worn cover flapping quietly in a sudden and gentle breeze.




Originally from Pennsylvania, Dasherly Quinn is a college student living in Washington, DC. Her work has previously been published in her high school literary magazine, including remove cellophane before consumption, [insert litmag here], and logophobia. When she is not running from the law or attempting to avenge wrongdoings in small, third-world countries, she spends her time writing, picnicking in forbidden places, and encouraging others to do the same. She can be reached by carrier pigeon, unicycle, and hot air balloon, but perhaps the easiest method is to email her at dasherly.quinn@gmail.com.