Sarah Sexton
The girl began turning to stone at a young age. When she first noticed the spot on her arm, it was only about the size of a dime. She enjoyed running her index finger over the smooth surface in tiny perfect circles, the way an older woman might rub lotion onto her face with the pads of her fingertips. Smooth, rhythmic circles. The stony surface spread further and became heavy, and she became stronger for carrying the weight. The girl liked the way it grounded her, the way her heavy feet pulled against the sidewalk as she walked, challenging the concrete not to crack under her greatness. Eventually, the stone took over most of her body. If other children made fun of her, she couldn’t hear their taunts through her cold, hardened ears. She did poorly in school and passed her free time reading comics about mutant superheroes and trying to force her body to do simple, insurmountable tasks, like whistling or turning cartwheels.
When the girl was of age, her parents pulled her from school and paid a career specialist to steer her towards a lucrative career that would befit her specialized condition. The specialist recommended multiple still-life career choices, such as holding trays of champagne at holiday parties, or handing out towels in upscale bathrooms. These career suggestions were offensive to the girl, as she knew she was much more skilled than a table.
With her heart full of dismay, the girl decided to travel while she considered her future. She toured the crowd-sanctioned destinations of Europe and found herself no closer to happiness. In museums, she was mistaken for works of art; strangers posed next to her as their friends took pictures. It was the first time she considered she might be beautiful. She pictured herself in the photo albums of strangers, their families oohing and awing with envy as they studied the girl’s face. But the hands turning the pages of the album would be effortlessly soft. The girl raised a stony hand to her stony arm and made tiny perfect circles, her finger scraping an imprint into her arm as it moved. Flecks of dust sprang into the air from the gentle grinding. She stopped. The girl considered the cost of softness and whether it was a price worth paying. She walked to the bus station and bought herself a ticket.
Along the way, she admired many things out the bus window. She loved the buildings. She loved the animals. She loved the small, efficient cars. She loved the light, distant clouds. There was no one thing she loved the most.
As she disembarked from the bus, she became immediately entranced with the song of the ocean. She followed that song to the edge of a cliff. The weight of her toes on the edge crumbled away the loose dirt. She heard small rocks rattle down the earthy wall toward the water. The girl knew the ocean was a brute force, but from such a great height, the waves against the large boulders below were only a gentle purr. She knew that gravity was likely but not indisputable. She knew that rules are always changing. She knew that if she stepped off the edge of the cliff, one of two things would happen: so she did.
SARAH SEXTON lives in northern Minnesota with her strangely industrious cat. Sarah is working toward her MFA at Pacific University, where she particularly enjoys reading and writing flash fiction.