BY Rachel Levy
The ground is sinking between my house and yours. A puddle-sized hole, filled with mud and dead grass. We watch it grow from our respective second-story windows.
Now the puddle is a canyon collecting snow and rain. Now it’s a lake, nearly half a mile across.
It’s becoming an ocean, attracting sea creatures from the distant Atlantic, the remote Pacific. Fish, squid, shrimp, and crab. The creatures move over dunes of cold winter sand, slide along icy asphalt highways. They cross miles of sleeping farmland. The legged ones crawl, while the others flop and writhe over the crisp December fields that encircle our town like spiders’ webs. They arrive travel-weary and slip headfirst into the water. At the bottom they build simple shell-and-bone structures, fastened with pieces of kelp.
Mornings, you watch me from the opposite shore. I pull on swimming goggles and tuck the broken ends of my short, yellow hair into a bathing cap. I enter the water, hold my breath and kick my legs, and when I return to the surface and the light, I’m clutching stolen pieces of strange architecture.
Rachel Levy is currently working toward an MFA in Fiction Writing at the University of Colorado. Before Colorado, she lived in southern Ohio, where she acquired an MA in English at Miami University. At Miami, she received both the Graduate Fiction Writing Award and the Outstanding Graduate Writer Award. Before Ohio, she lived in New York. And before New York, she lived in North Western Pennsylvania.