CHILDHOOD COLLECTIVE
Miracle-healing spit.
Cardin squished the baby snail between his thumb and forefinger, gasping in horror at yet another failed attempt to find a pet. Children whizzed past him carelessly, as if they did not dance on the graveyard of shells scattered below, laughing in rings around his little white skirt and attached dinosaur tail. Sniffing bitterly, Cardin thought about how he would love to see them squish a snail and try not to cry.
“Why can’t you pick up the snails?”
Little Ellie, with her curls and warm eyes, did not look so warmly at Cardin as he stood back up and brushed off his pants. She had already picked up a bunch of baby snails, her twenty easily beating Cardin’s measly one. It barely counted anyway, the full-grown snail being the only one strong enough to withstand his cryptic finger strength.
“It’s none of your business Smelly Ellie,” Cardin huffed at her, “I’ll find something I’m way better at than you are!”.
She simply giggled and trod away, as if Cardin were no longer any fun to tease. It did not matter though, he was determined, he had his lucky tail and his luckier skirt, and Cardin knew he would stubbornly find a way. Whatever, he thought, I’ll show her.
Swivelling to look for more snail hatchlings, Cardin tripped up on his shoelace and fell knee first into the forest of babies currently littering the playground. Crying out, he took his leg and cradled it into his chest, eyes stinging with frustration. Cardin’s little heart was already brimming with the loss of the snail-finding competition, a scraped knee was all too much. As he limped over to the old bathroom door, avoiding the pitiful eyes around him, Cardin bunched toilet paper in his hand and looked to the wonky wooden bench that awaited.
Hobbling over, he thought to himself that if there were ever the time for a miracle, it would be now. God, he concentrated as he sat on the shaky seat, look I promise I’ll proper believe in you if you do this one miracle for me. Like now. And I’ll start praying every night too. If that did not convince him, Cardin was not sure what would. He looked at the blood dripping from his knee and, dribbling spit onto the toilet paper he clenched on to, pressed it against his injury. An electric buzz stabbed at his bones, and Cardin squeezed his eyes shut and held down for as long as he could, wishing for miracle healing.
A kid zoomed past, stumbling slightly, jolting Cardin back to reality. To his delight, the crumpled tissue lifted to a perfectly-healed-no-longer-bleeding knee. He, the now proclaimed miracle healer, could not believe his eyes!
“Okay God,” Cardin mumbled into his shirt, “I’ll try my best to believe you.”
He did not pray that night.
The Fae that prey.
Asia faltered at the window, begging her eyes were playing cruel tricks. This was the witching hours, where everything stilled, and every breath thundered throughout the house. Not even the birds nesting in lilly pilly trees dared to stir, nor the fruit bats that had dived from a lamppost to the old may bush.
Yet it slowly moved forward, continuing to reveal what lay beyond the shadowy yard, night vision dotting orange with snow-like dots, stripes faltering beneath rippled patches of gloom. Asia’s heart was bursting at the seams, body all but stilled besides the slight buckling of her knees; she eyed its sharp stare as if it would pounce the second she stopped. Mouth patchy and withered, Asia’s stomach was already below the floor when she felt its silhouette wash over her. It blocked the moonlit window and sensed the microwave clock screaming at Asia to run, to move, to leave this damned hour.
Pitted and horrified, she knew was stuck, frozen in time, eternally planted to stare right back at the Bengal beast; it need not even raise its jaw to strike blood-curdling trepidation right into Asia’s chest.
Warmth filled the air, and lion’s teeth littered the garden floor. Asia could practically see the fae flit between each seamróg, following the seileán as they darted from anther to anther. Squatting beneath the glaring of the sun, she scooped her hands through the dirt patch burdened by lengthy weeds and vines. Every now and then, a roly poly would pop through and curl into a startled little ball, cute little legs tucked right into its stomach.
“I bet these are your capaill, aren’t they Úna?” Asia smiled.
She placed the fifth feithid in the bright pink plastic bowl they could now call home, scooping up the lilly pilly leaves that sheltered them from an lá. Asia knew that the fae required better living quarters but could not discern a single acorn or button apart from the yard. The aging birdhouse in the corner would have to do for now.
With all the draíocht she could muster, Asia clasped her hands in prayer, beseeching the aos sí to protect and guide her – anam beag caillte. Heal me from the night, she implored, I beg of you to let me liken myself to you. A fionnuar zephyr seeped into the air.
Its gear canines slicked the rims of its maw, bright eyes back to leering at Asia. She tried to still herself, wished she would not pound her head open with the pure dread running through her veins; she coveted the patience that the éin held. Before admitting to the enveloping black that awaited her, Asia tore her eyes toward the microwave clock one last time.
6:15 AM.
Written by Jasper Brady.
Jasper Brady is a young writer delving into journalism, prose, and the joy of zine-making. His work is filled with gaeilge, glas, and secret messages hidden in plain sight.