Szustalke

“Terror and grief crashed at me like the waves: violent and sharp, gushing and ebbing, but, at length, revealing a softness beneath. There was hope there. There was longing.

It was too late for both of us.

The sea witch howled.

I felt ancient and infantile.

My warming skin welcomed me back.

I pulled my final leg through and I landed, again, on the sand.

My belly was heavy, and sore at its scars, but I kicked my mottled grey tail and flapped my flippers. The true scent of the ocean roared back.

I threw myself at the mercy of the sea foam.

*

I plummet to the jagged water,

Ending fourteen years I’d fought her,

I am not the Raven’s daughter,

I ‘claimed my skin from the witch.”
― Christy Anne Jones, The Mercy of Sea Foam

“Each day was a carbon copy of the last. You needed a bookmark to tell one from the other.
That particular day was filled with the smell of autumn. I wrapped up work at the usual time, but when I got back to my apartment the twins were nowhere to be seen. I flopped into bed with my socks on, lit a cigarette, and let my mind wander. There were so many things I wanted to think about, but none took shape. Sighing, I sat up and glared at the white wall opposite the bed. I was stymied. Come on, man, I told myself, you can't stare at this damn wall forever. But that didn't help either. It was what the professor who oversaw my graduation thesis told me. Good style, clear argument, but you're not saying anything. That was my problem. Now I had a rare moment alone and I still couldn't get a handle on how to deal with myself.”
― Murakami