A flash fiction story, by Miriam McEwen

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The enemy visits your house,

and again, in reverse

By Miriam McEwen

So that even her laughter is an onslaught — hollow and high-pitched and out of nowhere — shrieking at you as she mounts the steps of your front porch. Saying she has come to heal you. Saturday! Today is the day! Waking you up. Penetrating your curvature of sunlight with her long shadow. Clad in an overwhelm of funky neon daffodils. A siege of smiling. And you flail in your wheelchair, tilted back for rest — but now dropped — dropping still. You are half-asleep. And you do not remember inviting her up here. Her hands cold like dead things praying over your legs. And you do not remember her name. You have no remembrance of her at all, in fact. She is unintelligible. In her fervor, head bowed and face all but disappeared from your sight. Indoctrinated tongue a small snake slipping in and out of her mouth. Saying you will be healed. You will be healed. Today is the day! Like a threat. Like darkness flooding into you. Touch of her hands. Something tearing, crunching, inside you. Like animals eating you alive.

Like animals eating you alive. Something tearing, crunching, inside you. Touch of her hands. Like darkness flooding into you. Like a threat. Today is the day! You will be healed. Saying you will be healed. Indoctrinated tongue a small snake slipping in and out of her mouth. In her fervor, head bowed and face all but disappeared from your sight. She is unintelligible. You have no remembrance of her at all, in fact. And you do not remember her name. Her hands cold like dead things praying over your legs. And you do not remember inviting her up on the front porch. You are half-asleep. And you flail in your wheelchair, tilted back for rest — but now dropped — dropping still. A siege of smiling. Clad in an overwhelm of funky neon daffodils. Penetrating your curvature of sunlight with her long shadow. Waking you up. Today is the day! Saturday! Saying she has come to heal you. So that even her laughter is an onslaught — terror mounting in your throat — hollow and high-pitched and out of nowhere. 

Miriam McEwen writes about disability and bodily autonomy. Her work is featured in Wigleaf, Best Small Fictions, HAD, Black Warrior Review, and others. McEwen serves as an associate editor at the South Carolina Review and lives in the foothills of South Carolina.

This is a flash fiction piece, a first for Appalachian Places. Flash fiction is characterized by its short word count — usually under 1,000 words — but still offers plot and character development. The writer describes this piece as “dealing in themes of religious trauma, rural isolation, and ableism common to the Blue Ridge.”