Old fragments #2.

From a never-to-be-published piece of quasi-erotica called “In the Shallows”.

*

When her turn came, she jumped a little higher than usual. Heather Sederstrom was no dummy. She knew that this adventure would take extra force. The ground, the rocks, the water whipped past her, and then she had in her hand a few leaves from the willow. When she did not let go of the rope, she heard at least one person back on land shout, “Wow!” Yes. Wooooooooooooooooow! The breeze in her ears. The water spraying from her wet hair. It didn’t really matter to her that she wasn’t facing the right direction until it came time to make her second grab. She twisted to reach the fern. Most of her calculations had been correct: she was at exactly the right height, and would make it back out to the water with no problem. Except. In her contortion she felt her feet lose traction. Her fingers closed over the fern. It did not want to break. Her feet paddled uselessly at the air. She had to let go of something. She chose to release the plant, and whip her hand back to the rope to hold on for dear life.

She tumbled down the side of the embankment, dragging her knees and feet. She felt her grip slackening, but could do nothing about it. One moment her back was to the water, and then she spun and the river shimmied into view. Her legs hit the rocks hidden in the shallows with a crack, and she lost the rope. She pitched forward and walloped herself on the surface of the water, losing her breath.

Heather came screaming into the air. Blood spewed from one of her knees. She looked down at it, the flesh opened up, her insides all visible for everyone to see. Her face stung. She knew that the worst was yet to come — despite the blood, the pain in her legs was just now rising. She cried, mostly at the stupidity of the thing. What an idiot. An idiot to go for two grabs. An idiot to let go of the fern and not the rope. An idiot to hurt herself in this way. An idiot to be sitting here, weeping openly in front of everybody.

As she sat in the shallows, sobbing like a dope, the older girl, the sister or cousin or aunt, swam up behind her and splashed her way onto the shore. She placed an arm over Heather’s shoulders and leaned in close. Heather heard the girl whisper something, but she could not put together what it was. She was aware now only of the pain, and of being gawped at in her pain.

The older girl sent the others away. By the time Heather had gathered herself, they were alone.

“Do you think you can swim?” the girl said.

Heather nodded.

She flapped across the river, her wounded leg dangling useless beneath her. She worried she might drown. But soon enough her hand caught earth, and she pulled herself upright. The sun angling for the treeline. The grassy smell of the riverbank. The mud between her toes, and the crickets.