Petrichor
A feminist, short speculative fiction
The dream came to her every night now, insistent like the tug of a rip current. It wouldn’t let her go. As soon as her thoughts grew hazy with sleep, she would be opening and swallowing. The dream was always the same. She swallowed the earth whole.
She stirred in bed. Still in the mirage of a wakeful dream, she felt her body full and ripe, heavy against the mattress. Then the daylight filtered through the curtains and assaulted her closed lids. Her empty stomach was concave, dipping towards her spine as she lay on her back. She kicked at the sheets twisted around her legs.
Awake, she couldn’t eat a thing. She made toast. The dry edges scratched her lips and gums. She couldn’t force down more than a few nibbles. Her daughter was sitting at the kitchen table, writing again. Her pencil scratched against the page of her journal. She placed a tender hand on the girl’s dark curls. “My little scribe.”
The child looked up at her. “You should eat, Mama. You had no dinner last night.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll just have coffee.”
She cleared away her daughter’s cereal bowl and juice glass. Her mind wandered as she went through the familiar routine of brewing coffee. Every morning she woke up with one thought throbbing behind her closed eyes. She…
