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TRANSCEND by Manna

TRANSCEND

There once was a little Inuit girl whose life ended her mother’s. She lived alone with her father in a house of snow, far far away from where any other could reach them, in a place where high mountains stood like teeth against a permanently black sky.

Her father was a hunter, tall and calloused from the harsh winds. His face was stern and weathered, but would light up for her, a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Together they would feast and she would be happy, sitting next to him by the fire, but while alone their home became a cage of ice. She would shiver and curl into herself, wrapped in a skin, with every harsh wind scraping against the shell. The darkness was too much for her to look out after him, she could only pray for his return.

As a mewling insect she would crawl on her belly, chittering and circling the fire, impatient for his return.

And when she could she would grovel at her father’s feet: “please take me with you!”, but she reached the tender age of eight he did not buckle. Through pity of her loneliness he said to her: “Never leave my side”, and they left their frozen home.

The night above them is clear, thousands of stars poking out through black cloth. He says: “Stay close” and begins his march, trudging the thick snow with harpoon in hand. She runs to follow, looking out at the world with fresh eyes.

The mountains are a sharp barrier, nipping at the night in every direction, save ahead. They are approaching the large bay that cuts into their circular country. Many bright colours teem in the water, skipping up upon its surface and resting on the rocks. “Those are seals” he says, “They glow so they might find a mate.”

She can hear their barking from the rocks. Little spots of colour meeting, bumping noses, and then skipping off into the sea. Rainbow ripples skirt across the surface in their wake, reflecting the aurora streams above.

“Is this what we’re going to eat?” she is afraid. These creatures fill her with wonder, their glowing tie-dye skin fighting against the night.

“No, not tonight” her father says, trekking through the snow with the long spear to his chest.

The wind combs their hair as they walk in the face of the snow, father and daughter, hand in hand. She has her mother’s eyes, deep and round. In them the moon shines, and the world seems reflected. The waves roil at her feet, lapping at the sand before he leads her to the ascent.

The end of the crescent is a peak, the bridge between the sky and sea. They stand at its epoch and kiss the heavy wind, waiting.

He crouches in quiet disternation, his eyes thin and scarce. The clouds slowly drift by. The only sound is the howling wind against their forms, and the murmuring of the sea beneath them.

“Father?” She stands behind him, watching his still form. She does not recognize the sharp glint that sparks his eyes. In this moment he is not her father, he is not a man, he is a psychopath. There is no sound, no feeling save this low rumble that builds beneath them.

She follows his gaze to the low hanging clouds, teeming with small silver flecks, and squinting she sees the little fish that school in the mist, glinting scales refracting the moon’s tender light.

And at the climax of this gentle shaking the water ripples, breaches, and a whale leaps into the sky, back arched against the moonlight, mouth open, spraying tide below it. Like lightning, he takes his arm back and thrusts so quickly (a psychopath, a well and true psychopath). His spear sails through the air, cutting through the cascading surf and thick flesh without hesitation.

And the gargantuan beast falls. It stares blankly outward, falling for what feels like forever. Its moan hangs in the air, and its blood leaves a trail behind it. Breathe. She keeps breathing as it crashes into the rocks below.

“Father”, her little lip quivering. What she has just witnessed is the act that keeps her alive. Fluorescent seals skip away on the tide, shouting loudly to clear the area. Slowly the sea fades to black. The sky fades to black. The cliff face fades to black.

“Come along” he says, taking her down to the dark tide where he grabs the great tail of the dead thing, a being five times larger than himself, and beaches it as best he can. With a cruel hunting knife, curved like a smile and jagged like its teeth, he dissects.

It all comes out. Blubber and organs and skin and bones. Muscles and brain and liver and tongue. With the many serrations he lacerates the arteries, slices at the veins and hacks away at tissue. There is no verboten, tearing away at the carcass for its many meats. What is left is a desecration, a husk with few scraps of gray meat and tendons sticking to its bones. She stands in hours of cold silence, just watching. She’s almost thankful when he removes its eyes, its staring eyes.

“We’ll make soup tonight, and I’ll prepare the tongue for you too, that’s your favourite.”

She treads beside him shivering, no words, helping to carry one of many filled bags.

When they get home she isn’t very hungry. She pecks at her soup and asks her father to save the tongue; “I’m feeling ill”.

Sleep comes slowly. Her mind focuses too much on the wind outside, wailing, the foul taste in her mouth, and the carcasses of meals past. All of them died for her to live, for her hunger.

And it brings this feeling to her viscera. Not soreness, not even pain as she would know it. Emptiness, like her insides had sunken, fallen. Unsick nausea, black choler.

In the morning her father kisses her forehead: “Are you feeling any better?”

Shake her head, black hair sticking to her cheeks with sweat.

“I’m sorry Dear, I never should have taken you out last night. The cold has given you sickness.”

He stands up, patting her head and making for the little exit. “You bundle up, get your rest. I’ll go out and get you a treat, something I know you like, that’ll cheer you up.”

She crawls over to the entryway as an insect, skittering on legs too disgusted to stand erect, and watches him leave, bloody spear over his shoulder. He disappears on the horizon, perhaps back to the fjord where the clouds hang so low, or to the inner bay with its many wrecks and fish.

Curling into herself, too hot for blankets.

Breathe. She keeps breathing. Knees to her chest, eyes wide.

She seriously doubts it. She doesn’t think he is right at all.

He is as wrong as this feeling in her heart.

TRANSCEND

Manna

The opening story for my soon to be published anthology, o.o

Seeing as it is going to be uploaded for free soon on Lulu, I thought I might as well preview some of it here

TRANSCEND tells the story of an inuit girl who has never left her home, going out to hunt for the first time with her father

Inspired mostly by a friend of mine in highschool, named Dana, with whom I would discuss politic and morality often

Minor inspiration stems from Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie (an inspiration that covers most of this upcoming collection), and T r a n s c e n d, a song by Husky in Denial

Debating whether I should tag my inspirations or not, hmmmm

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Comments

  • Link

    I'm curious if the kind of prose you're going for here is sort of a pseudo-poetry. A lot of your sentences are odd in a story context, but not odd in a poetry context. It takes some concentration to read, but it gives it a unique feel. Maybe it was the few references to insects that did it, but it felt a little Kafka-esque.

    • Link

      Kafka... was that Metamorphosis? I remember liking that story

      I've always tried to write with influence from poetry. Foremost a certain economy with words (which translates to a minimalist style), the use of odd sentence structure to create flow or add emphasis, and (taking inspiration from Lewis Carol) the rare use of portmanteau

      It stems mostly from my teacher, who emphasized the ideals of economy and emphasis through poetic style

      #UnwantedBiography