The Gem of The Ocean
Mayra hoped Jamie would text her. She knew how busy he was. Still, she lived in constant hope.
Jamie was a big deal reporter for the New York Times. Mayra was a substitute teacher.
Jamie was, in his own words, “not quite a cad, but certainly a lad.” It was one of his many bizarre Britishisms. It was also accurate: He seemed to have a newer, more beautiful woman on his arm every month. Occasionally one on each arm. Maya’s nights mostly consisted of dinner before the TV. If the baby fell asleep at a decent hour, she and her husband might start a movie they had every intention of finishing.
Still, Jamie and Mayra were friends. In addition to sharing maternal grandparents, they had both gone to Columbia University. Despite the fact that they’d graduated from different schools, and different years, it was one more thing to bond over. What they had in common wasn’t specific memories, but rather a seal. Not far from the New York Times Building stands Madison Square Garden. Where—nearly 30 years earlier—Mayra and Jamie had “met.” Mayra had intellectually understood how famous the musician was. Not that she particularly cared. What she cared about was that she was with her favorite aunt and uncle. They could have taken her to the Staten Island Dump and she still would have enjoyed herself. Danny had placed her upon his shoulders, the better for her to see. At some point during the first set, Eileen had exclaimed: “Danny! Mayra! He’s kicking! He’s dancing! He’s kicking!” Mayra was encouraged to place her hand on her auntie’s extended abdomen. She felt, not quite a kick, but a definite sense of movement. Something that wasn’t a vibration due to heavy bass. Something that had its own—his own—human locomotion. And that’s when Jamie became real to her, whereas before he’d been an abstraction. Now he was breathing, bodily, bloody bones. She loved him, at that moment, in a way she’d never known she could love. The family lore was that before Jamie even had a name, he and Mayra had danced together. Though that part was perhaps a slight exaggeration, there existed a blurry picture as proof of the night. Mayra and Eileen smiling at Danny’s camera. Jamie biding his time.
She thought of that night often, during her own pregnancy. It was the warmest memory, of sweat and soft lighting.
On Wednesday, Jamie finally texted her. He asked her if she could meet for a drink on Friday. He chose a bar that was slightly closer to her Brooklyn apartment than to his. He was always thoughtful with that kind of detail.
Mayra arrived at the bar ten minutes early. She was grateful to her husband for cheerfully accepting baby duty. She had so much to say to Jamie! So much to share, so many questions to ask! She sat on her stool and basked in her bliss.
Forty minutes later, she ordered a second drink. She would enjoy herself and not be angry, she resolved as it was being poured. Anger was poison and red wine was the antidote.
Then finally he came.
He looked so tired. Though handsome as ever, his hair was graying. He was not yet thirty.
She didn’t think much of it. His job was a stressful as it was glamorous.
“I’m so sorry, Mayra,” he said.
“Oh, it’s no big deal! I know how busy you are. Really, I’ve been having a great time, and—”
“You’ll most likely live. So will I. More importantly, your child will live. That’s something, at least. It could be worse. It’s not THAT dramatic. Not really. The children will live, for the most part. Yes, that’s definitely something.”
“Jamie, you’re not making sense.”
“We had a good run, didn’t we?” It was clear he was no longer talking to her. “God, I’m gonna miss you.”
Mayra felt very cold. “Jamie. Who are you talking to?” But she knew. She kind of knew.
Jamie made brief eye contact with Mayra for the first time that night. Just long enough for her to note that his eyeballs were bloodshot, which was darkly funny, considering how blue the irises were.
Rendering his glance a glass of red, white and blue.
He didn’t speak aloud, he merely mouthed:
America.
HARMLESS FOUL
They have no brains, nor eyes. They barely even have heads. Just a beak, really. One that opens and closes. Rhythmically. Repetitively.
They have no internal organs, skeleton, skin. They are feather over NOTHING.
They are but hollow shells, with moving beaks.
They vaguely resemble birds. They fly on their side, if flying is the correct term. Rather, they glide.
Their beaks agape, and closing, and opening again. A grotesque parody of Pac-Man. A pizza with one slice eaten.
Can they be killed? They can certainly be destroyed. But are they alive, to begin with?
The scientists dissect them. They see no DNA, no sign of life, no sensible organic structure.
Just a random shape, covered in feathers, with a hungry greedy mouth.
Where did it come from? What even IS it? This is the question we ask. In the semi-private committees. In the fully public town meetings. In the group chats. In the shadows of the hallways.
Where did it come from, what is it, why are we being stalked by creepy semi-living birds?
They can’t do any damage to humans. Or at least they haven’t yet.
They have no scientific name. We informally call them the Harmless Foul. Some people insist on spelling it Fowl, but Foul is funnier and more accurate.
They attack randomly, from the sky, when you’re out in public. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s scary as Hell. To have this shapeless thing trying to eat you. Its beak has no power, and the entire body is so light you can easily push it away. Watch it glide somewhere else, to a new victim.
They seem to not be interested in cars. As such, vehicle use has tripled in the last year. Even if you’re only traveling a block. Parking is increasingly nightmarish.
Those brave enough to walk outside will often wear protective hats.
Suicides have increased, though the causation/correlation is difficult to pinpoint. Are the Harmless Foul driving us mad? Or are they representative of a terrible cosmic shift?
And then one day, they glide away. All of them, all at once.
The sky looks scary for a few minutes.
And then it’s as if they were never there.
They were never there.
We must have made it up. A mass hallucination.
That’s what we repeat, to each other and ourselves. It’s almost religious prayer.
There never was a single Harmless Foul. It had no scientific name. Therefore, it’s a myth we made up, to make sense of the world. It’s a metaphor for our powerlessness, for the random cruelty that seems to come from nowhere. That attacks us from the sky. No human cause.
We pretend to believe that this is true. This meta-myth, that what once had matter is actually mythological.
The fact that when asked to draw one, our drawings look very much the same, that proves nothing. Unicorns and dragons are recognizable, despite never having existed on our physical plane. Same with mermaid and phoenix, the griffin, the sphinx.
But sometimes, in darkness, we casually admit to each other what is no longer polite to say in public.
They were the Harmless Foul. Or Harmless Fowl, if you prefer.
And they were real. For a few years they were all too real.
They were.
Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, short stories, and paintings have been published both online and in print. Publications include Littoral Magazine, Spinozablue, Third Wednesday Magazine, [Alternate Route], Paddler Press, Verse-Virtual, Macrame Literary Journal, Route 7 Review, Sublunary Review, Quail Bell Magazine, Assignment Literary Magazine, Superpresent, Jelly Squid, redrosethorns, and Flash Frog. Over fifty of Alaina’s original plays have been produced off-off Broadway. As a playwright, she’s probably proudest of Goth Principal. For her role as Inez in No Exit, she was nominated for a BroadwayWorld Off-Broadway Award (Best Performance, Off-Off Broadway). She holds a BA from Marlboro College and an MA from Columbia University. She lives in California with her husband and son. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram.