by MaHo Pita
Honorable Mention – Flash 405, August 2024: “Otherworldly”
Fiction
“Do not speak; if they hear you, you will condemn yourself to the flames. Lose the purpose on your lips and hide within yourself; it’s the only place they will never care to search.” My mother’s chant echoes through my throat.
We learned to conceal our language beneath our tongues, sharpened our teeth and twisted our lips to form words unnatural to us. Ripped from our homeland, we disguised our souls in plain sight. I hide, just as my mother did, and the mother of my mother, and the generations before her. I bite my tongue, trapping the voices of long-lost ancestors below it.
I come from the sun, the wind, and the earth. Before you arrived, I was already resting among the trees. My people lived beyond the meadow, in the ashes of oblivion, lost in a field of fireflies. Kind souls punished and humiliated, reduced to cinder. As far back as I can remember, I’ve lived like this, hiding my voice, my heritage.
When you grow up in darkness, you learn to listen intently, to detect scattered sounds and harmonies. My language was never theirs; my dialect is strong and resonant, roaring like a storm. I learned to listen at a young age, practicing a spell, but it’s not as simple as it sounds. Suppressing the essence of your history under your tongue is uncomfortable and sorrowful. How do you banish your people from your mouth? Sometimes their voices ache beneath the surface, pleading to be released, celebrated and respected. Speaking becomes painful and treacherous, thus you limit your words. After all, the more you speak, the greater the risk of your accent escaping.
That happened to me. Tired of deceitfully speaking when I was meant for singing, I eventually allowed my true voice to emerge. After years of denying my heritage, my culture, and my roots, I embraced them, proudly pronouncing their joyous symphonies. The lives of those who came before me spoke through me, the sweetest words escaping my lips. With kind eyes, accepting the punishment for the sin of loving my sounds. But fear not, I do not regret it; I prefer to die honest and heard rather than forgotten and false. So I repeat a prayer to the heavens, and in my own tongue I say,
“A mi madre y a su madre y a todos los que me precedieron, perdónenme por negarlos.”
And then the fire consumes me.
Judge’s Comments:
This powerful fiction piece shatters darkness, silence, and fear by invoking the sun, wind, and earth to tell the world the truth, through the words of a bruja. Though the fire consumes her, language and lineage live on.
MaHo Pita is a Mexican poet and fiction writer with a love for short stories and fantasy. Her passion for language fuels her global adventures in search of captivating new words and the perfect cup of coffee. She has contributed her work to several collaborative poetry collections featuring diverse voices and artistic expressions. When she’s not crafting tales or poetry, you’ll find her immersed in the lives of fictional characters, hosting whimsical reading sessions under tables, or perfecting her chocolate cake recipe.
Photo by Joshua Newton