Glory's Teeth by Tessa Gratton

Author:Tessa Gratton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tessa Gratton
Published: 2014-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

I open my eyes to clear violet skies.

Like twilight spread from horizon to horizon, no variation, no lightening or darkening from sun or sunset. Wisps of clouds pull in unnatural spirals, like a painting, not the heavens.

The tickle of grass on my cheek alerts me to the tall summer grass all around. Green and elegant, fringed with honey-yellow seeds that bend and bow in a warm breeze. I smell nothing but grass and rich earth. No dead worms or the dust from grasshoppers and beetles. No rotting mice, no skit, no petroleum tingeing the air.

I’m a girl, and naked, but the crushed grass beneath me feels silky and tangled, not prickling and rough. Lifting a hand, I brush the bearded grass and hear a small sound like bells, a tinny rattle that makes me smile despite myself.

I am warm. I am not in pain. The bright sky doesn’t make me wince. The hand I lift is smooth and unlined, entirely lacking any green polish. There is no slow beat of my own heart. There is only a quiet emptiness in the pit of my chest.

Not discomforting, not gaping or painful. Something has changed.

• • •

I

am

not

hungry.

• • •

Swinging to my bare feet, I stand and stretch. This delightful lack of desire, of need! Here is this beautiful meadow that stretches in every direction, and I don’t want to eat it.

Laughing, I hop up and down, clapping my hands like a little girl. My hair skims my bare back, my toes are warm on the earth, the tall grass brushes my knees and thighs.

I run.

My legs stretch and my lungs fill with this warm honey wind. I spread my arms and grasp the air as I go, then pull them tight against myself and pump hard and harder, running running running, because there is nothing else I need.

The meadow curves with me as I race for the horizon, as if it were its own small world spinning under my feet.

Eventually, a small cabin appears, one room, with a blue gabled roof and a garden of bright summer flowers that are yellow and orange and purple, or huge red eyes surrounded by sunburst petals. The front door is propped open with an old watering can.

As I approach, a man appears in the dim doorframe, wearing frayed old jeans and nothing else. He is beautiful like the sun, formed like the gods are formed, with a spill of golden hair and eyes the exact same gentle purple as the sky. He lounges against the doorframe, propped on his shoulder, hip cocked.

I grin and slow my run so that I stalk toward him, and he sees me. His eyes go wide in surprise and pleasure, and he reaches out a hand.

Taking it, I feel a spread of contentment and the tiny revving of an engine deep inside my gut.

He weaves our fingers together, and we stand there, studying each other. I know him, but I can’t think of his name.

To be honest, I can’t think of my own name, either.

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