Shattered Shell
Flash Fiction Story
by Savannah Hernandez
I play in the thriving leaves that
branch out from the wild yam-potatoes rooted just outside my home, excited to
see the new growth that has come. I let
the leaves slap against my knees as I run through, tiptoeing to ensure that I
don’t step on any new buds sprouting from the moist dirt. My balance sways as I bend and run and
twirl. I stumble—
Crunch. Pain shoots through my
foot. I cry as I fall over and curl
up. I feel wet red spilling. I find
glass shards in my skin. I pull them out, one by one, and look to where it had
come from, tearing away at the leaves to better see.
A snail. Its shell broken, tiny glass shards scattered
around it glisten in the sunlight like crystal.
It cries and wails as it writhes in pain. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t see it beneath the leaves. I frantically try to put the pieces back
together, but the shards just keep falling apart. I keep trying and trying, but the slime makes
it more difficult with each attempt. The
snail cries louder, twisting more and more with each touch. It only begins to settle when I leave it
alone, but I can hear it softly weeping still.
I hear slow and steady footsteps
approaching from the woods, carrying the sounds of kicked dirt and snapping
sticks with them. It’s the Cyclops. His eye, that ugly eye, is steady and
unblinking, and I feel something awful wash over me as he stares. I snatch the leaves I tore and cover the
snail; the crying is barely muffled. My
heart leaps to my throat as his lips part to speak– but I run, limping, back to my home to hide
before I could hear his horrid voice.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to.
I’m sorry.
Savannah Hernandez is a creative story writer, poet, and visual
artist who graduated from Cal Poly Pomona University with a Bachelors in
English Literature. Her themes often focus on healing, growth, and
reflections on existence. Other published works can be found on her blog at thelilredwriter.wordpress.com.
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