by Sophie Hoss
Flash Fiction
Night battered the windows. Snow fell too, and some rain. I dreamt of swallowing river stones like lozenges. I held my breath backwards. I wanted to swim to the very bottom of myself and find you there among the dark, glinting like sea glass in a cavern. When I felt you growing in me, I played the harp for the first time in years, and I didn’t even mind the arthritis spearing my fingertips. I wanted to make you dance. They all told me I was too old to have you, too alone, but I knew you were there because of how much you hurt. A pearl begins to grow around something called an irritant. I once saw a photograph of a pearl-farm oyster sliced open. The shells looked like a pair of cyst-filled ovaries. The night never really goes away, it’s just that we can’t see the darkness anymore, and the light chases off our secrets. There’s so much we don’t understand. I know there’s something alive in me too hidden for an ultrasound to find. Too rare to touch. Too beautiful to love.
Sophie Hoss loves the ocean and is in bed by 9 p.m. every night. She has received a Pushcart Prize, and her words are scattered around in BOMB, The Baffler, The Los Angeles Review, Split Lip, Wigleaf, and elsewhere. Also, she has a small dog named Elmo who likes to wear little sweaters. You can read more of her work at sophiehosswriting.com.