Sonia Greenfield
America's Pastime
Celia saw striations of ochre and brown reaching beyond her scope of vision, and if
she peered over the edge she could see segments of the Colorado River snaking greenish
and wavering in the heat fumes of summer. Celia saw her spouse of ten years
also looking down, saw the cord running to his ear where the Dodger’s game
unfolded in tinny radio waves, saw denim shorts with belt, tube socks, and sleeveless
Stones tee with its grotesque red mouth, tongue like an infected scrotum. Celia saw
the scar wrapping around from the webbing between thumb and forefinger across
the back of her hand and down to the styloid at her wrist, and she remembered how
her parents struggled with her impulsivity, even taking her to shrinks to understand
why she would throw her favorite doll off the overpass into traffic or why she would
put her hand into a campfire. For the pleasure of giving in to that voice, she told them. Celia saw
the erosion, the very depth of it, and wondered at what level the river ran, how high
it flowed and at what era it cut through the land, maybe when pterodactyls dived
claws first for dinosaur hatchlings, and she could hear in her mind’s ear a cacophony
of screeching. These are pterrible thoughts about pterodactyls, Celia, she muttered out loud,
pronouncing the p’s to no one as her spouse shouted, He was fucking out! also to no one.
Celia saw her future stretching out as far as she could see, and Celia saw how little
was likely to grow there as in this canyon of overabundant dust and prehistoric rock,
then she took two steps back from the edge and one step to the left. It’s all small peaks
but mostly plunging, Celia thought. In front of her eyes the scar on her hand jumped back
and forth as she blinked each eye open and closed as she used to do as a child, but this time
her husband’s shirt served as a background, its grotesque mouth taunting. Then she
took a quick step forward and with stiff arms gave him a shove. Celia saw his arms
churning through the air like a swimmer in a river or like a pterodactyl, shrieking.
she peered over the edge she could see segments of the Colorado River snaking greenish
and wavering in the heat fumes of summer. Celia saw her spouse of ten years
also looking down, saw the cord running to his ear where the Dodger’s game
unfolded in tinny radio waves, saw denim shorts with belt, tube socks, and sleeveless
Stones tee with its grotesque red mouth, tongue like an infected scrotum. Celia saw
the scar wrapping around from the webbing between thumb and forefinger across
the back of her hand and down to the styloid at her wrist, and she remembered how
her parents struggled with her impulsivity, even taking her to shrinks to understand
why she would throw her favorite doll off the overpass into traffic or why she would
put her hand into a campfire. For the pleasure of giving in to that voice, she told them. Celia saw
the erosion, the very depth of it, and wondered at what level the river ran, how high
it flowed and at what era it cut through the land, maybe when pterodactyls dived
claws first for dinosaur hatchlings, and she could hear in her mind’s ear a cacophony
of screeching. These are pterrible thoughts about pterodactyls, Celia, she muttered out loud,
pronouncing the p’s to no one as her spouse shouted, He was fucking out! also to no one.
Celia saw her future stretching out as far as she could see, and Celia saw how little
was likely to grow there as in this canyon of overabundant dust and prehistoric rock,
then she took two steps back from the edge and one step to the left. It’s all small peaks
but mostly plunging, Celia thought. In front of her eyes the scar on her hand jumped back
and forth as she blinked each eye open and closed as she used to do as a child, but this time
her husband’s shirt served as a background, its grotesque mouth taunting. Then she
took a quick step forward and with stiff arms gave him a shove. Celia saw his arms
churning through the air like a swimmer in a river or like a pterodactyl, shrieking.
Prince Charles
He was given a bigger bowl than you’d expect, pink iridescent stones, a miniature palm tree
made of plastic, a sprinkle of flakes each morning. Evie knew that if he was happy,
life would putter along unimpeded by petty drama or teen heartache, and when she’d
burst into her room after school, Prince Charles would swim up to the glass as she collapsed
into her desk chair to start on homework. That is until junior year when she came home
on a Tuesday and found him floating as fish do when they are no longer fish but little
flesh suits left behind for more ephemeral things. Evie refused to flush him, instead building
a mausoleum of Fimo clay and adding it to her fairy garden in the backyard, so Prince Charles
lay interred beside a toy mushroom house, Tinker Bell figurines, rocks painted to look like
flowers, and an arched door made of Popsicle sticks that opened to a niche in the tree where
fairies allegedly kept house. It’s hard to say whether it was just how things go to hell
in high school or that regular sine wave of ups and downs, but after this death, nothing
made sense. Not calculus, not Aristophanes, not even Tess’s decision to date Johnny Blancher,
whose eyes were too close together and who smelled like his clothes sat damp in the dryer.
Evie tanked two AP exams, sprained her ankle in soccer, and screamed I hate you! at her mother
because she wouldn’t let her go to the BTS concert on a school night. Evie had no choice.
On the first Saturday in May she disinterred Prince Charles who resembles the dried fish
neighbor Pam used as dog training treats even though nothing in the world could get Milo
to stop barking at squirrels, but now that she had him out of his mausoleum and held
his desiccated remains in the palm of her hand, she didn’t know what to do with him.
Almost all the red and purple had leached from his flesh, and his fins, once silken and billowy,
were gone. What would you have done? Make a keychain? Drive a hole through his tail
and wear him as a necklace? Press him between the pages of the dictionary where L as in loss
and L as in love kiss? Carry him around in your pocket, rubbing your thumb along
his wrinkled side? Saved a single pocket in your purse for your lucky fish? Brought the whole
mausoleum to your office and plopped it on your desk next to the photo of your kid’s
graduation? Never mind you, anyway. Evie said a Hail Mary and ohpleaseohpleaseohplease
and sorrybuddy and holyshitwhatamIdoing, and then she swallowed him with a big glass of water,
which was hard and she kind of gagged. The following Monday she aced her chem final,
found out her braces could come off, and was asked to prom by Missy Kingston, who wore
a tux top with a matching tutu to the dance. Evie wore a dress of purple with little pink
and red sequins bedazzling the gown, its ombre swirl snagging at the strobe lights.
made of plastic, a sprinkle of flakes each morning. Evie knew that if he was happy,
life would putter along unimpeded by petty drama or teen heartache, and when she’d
burst into her room after school, Prince Charles would swim up to the glass as she collapsed
into her desk chair to start on homework. That is until junior year when she came home
on a Tuesday and found him floating as fish do when they are no longer fish but little
flesh suits left behind for more ephemeral things. Evie refused to flush him, instead building
a mausoleum of Fimo clay and adding it to her fairy garden in the backyard, so Prince Charles
lay interred beside a toy mushroom house, Tinker Bell figurines, rocks painted to look like
flowers, and an arched door made of Popsicle sticks that opened to a niche in the tree where
fairies allegedly kept house. It’s hard to say whether it was just how things go to hell
in high school or that regular sine wave of ups and downs, but after this death, nothing
made sense. Not calculus, not Aristophanes, not even Tess’s decision to date Johnny Blancher,
whose eyes were too close together and who smelled like his clothes sat damp in the dryer.
Evie tanked two AP exams, sprained her ankle in soccer, and screamed I hate you! at her mother
because she wouldn’t let her go to the BTS concert on a school night. Evie had no choice.
On the first Saturday in May she disinterred Prince Charles who resembles the dried fish
neighbor Pam used as dog training treats even though nothing in the world could get Milo
to stop barking at squirrels, but now that she had him out of his mausoleum and held
his desiccated remains in the palm of her hand, she didn’t know what to do with him.
Almost all the red and purple had leached from his flesh, and his fins, once silken and billowy,
were gone. What would you have done? Make a keychain? Drive a hole through his tail
and wear him as a necklace? Press him between the pages of the dictionary where L as in loss
and L as in love kiss? Carry him around in your pocket, rubbing your thumb along
his wrinkled side? Saved a single pocket in your purse for your lucky fish? Brought the whole
mausoleum to your office and plopped it on your desk next to the photo of your kid’s
graduation? Never mind you, anyway. Evie said a Hail Mary and ohpleaseohpleaseohplease
and sorrybuddy and holyshitwhatamIdoing, and then she swallowed him with a big glass of water,
which was hard and she kind of gagged. The following Monday she aced her chem final,
found out her braces could come off, and was asked to prom by Missy Kingston, who wore
a tux top with a matching tutu to the dance. Evie wore a dress of purple with little pink
and red sequins bedazzling the gown, its ombre swirl snagging at the strobe lights.
The Other Metamorphoses
As George Clooney awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself
transformed in his bed into a middle-class mother of three named Natalie Gregerson.
Meanwhile, across town, Natalie Gregerson awoke from uneasy dreams
and found herself transformed into George Clooney. George Clooney lounged
for a while in his percale sheets and traced with a well-manicured fingernail
stretch marks like poorly applied war paint that ran down his deflated belly,
and though he was still shocked by what he found below that belly, let’s just say
he reveled in those feminine secrets. Natalie Gregerson, now George Clooney,
wasted little time before she strode, dick gently bouncing against her thighs,
into the bathroom to let out a hard stream of piss while she glanced at the tubful
of abandoned bath toys. Likewise, as the giant cockroach awoke one morning from
uneasy dreams, it found himself transformed into a Swallowtail Butterfly, but because
it lived in the kitchen wall, the newly transformed cockroach was unable to open
its wings and became trapped where it was once able to skitter, ignorant of beauty.
It died inside the wall where it was consumed by a mouse, which, incidentally,
used to be a potted geranium dangling from George Clooney's Italian villa.
transformed in his bed into a middle-class mother of three named Natalie Gregerson.
Meanwhile, across town, Natalie Gregerson awoke from uneasy dreams
and found herself transformed into George Clooney. George Clooney lounged
for a while in his percale sheets and traced with a well-manicured fingernail
stretch marks like poorly applied war paint that ran down his deflated belly,
and though he was still shocked by what he found below that belly, let’s just say
he reveled in those feminine secrets. Natalie Gregerson, now George Clooney,
wasted little time before she strode, dick gently bouncing against her thighs,
into the bathroom to let out a hard stream of piss while she glanced at the tubful
of abandoned bath toys. Likewise, as the giant cockroach awoke one morning from
uneasy dreams, it found himself transformed into a Swallowtail Butterfly, but because
it lived in the kitchen wall, the newly transformed cockroach was unable to open
its wings and became trapped where it was once able to skitter, ignorant of beauty.
It died inside the wall where it was consumed by a mouse, which, incidentally,
used to be a potted geranium dangling from George Clooney's Italian villa.
Sonia Greenfield (she/they) is the author of Helen of Troy is High AF, All Possible Histories, Letdown, and Boy with a Halo at the Farmer's Market. A 2024 McKnight Writing Fellow, her writing has appeared in the 2018 and 2010 Best American Poetry, The Southern Review, Copper Nickel, and elsewhere. She lives with her family in Minneapolis, where she teaches at Normandale College. More at soniagreenfield.com.