A crab shell on the riverbank marked the end of day. No crab inside, just the empty carapace and claws, bright objects against the darker sandy grit along the water. Jyr laid thin branches of hemlock around the shell, then watched the river current flickering where the setting sun touched the ripples.
She had gathered bare sticks and limbs to make a fire, but that was for after night dropped its curtain over the landscape. For now, she sat cross-legged on the bank, next to the shell, and waited.
Soon, the heron had told her. The change was approaching. Was she ready?
She’d asked, “Will I like it?” The heron had preened, offering nothing else.
With a weathered branch, Jyr drew shape after shape in the damp sand. Maybe the runic symbols Belna had taught her as a child would help hurry along whatever lay ahead.
Six mallards swam past, their soft quacks of conversation weaving with the low rush of water over stones. A breeze from the northeast ruffled Jyr’s hair and brought the sharp scent of pine sap. Small rocks mixed with the finer sand pressed into Jyr’s bottom, forcing her to shift.
As the sun sank below the horizon, the river darkened. Instead of a fiery glint, the running water now reflected the spangle of stars emerging overhead.
And still Jyr waited, her stomach rumbling in a low growl. When?
As hard as she stared, nothing and no one appeared out of the night. Finally, a crab moved at the edge of the water, and with a quick stab she had it in her beak. Beak? Now standing, she lifted one leg and then the other, her knees bending backward, then she shook, feeling her feathers move and rearrange themselves.
Another crab, another swallow. Jyr resumed her slow stalk along the bank, the memory of what she had been already fading, like the shapes and symbols drawn in the wet sand.
Read More of Dianna’s Stories
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A crab shell on the riverbank marked the end of day. No crab inside, just the empty carapace and claws, bright objects against the darker sandy grit along the water. Jyr laid thin branches of hemlock around the shell, then watched the river current flickering where the setting sun touched the ripples.
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Carrie’s SUV coasted to a stop along I-78, the rest of the weekend morning traffic zooming past, hurrying on their way to Dorney Park or the Poconos farther on. The dashboard lights flashed a warning, but she already knew the problem.
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When Kristi saw the blue ribbon, she smothered her surprise. Yes, she should have been ecstatic—first place for acrylics in the local arts festival. But the backstory for the painting, “Raging Storm,” was still too raw, too fresh.
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Born and raised in the Midwest, Dianna has also lived in three other quadrants of the U.S. She writes short stories and poetry, and has just released a full-length novel, Scream of the Silent Sun.
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Born and raised in the Midwest, Dianna has also lived in three other quadrants of the U.S. She writes short stories and poetry, and has just released a full-length novel, Scream of the Silent Sun.
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