Dimly lit, floating in a pond of black, there is a goose; its beak a vibrant metallic red. I am enthralled, enchanted, enticed; fully and utterly captivated by this creature. My desire to be closer to this goose, innate and undeniable. I reach out to touch it, because I just have to touch it and when my hand is close, she opens her mouth. She doesn’t just open her mouth, she unlatches her jaw. I didnt even think geese had jaws, but she did. She used hers to hide a mouth lined with serrated fangs. Note that I didn’t say teeth, I said fangs, because teeth don’t convey the same violent connotations; this goose was violent. Or at least she had been. Upon this alluring goose, now being threateningly close, fear and curiosity concede.
In my examination of my life and her beak, I come to realize that the brilliant, deep shade of red…was blood (and lord knows it wasn’t the gooses). Horrified, ablustley, truly, revoltingly aghast, by this realization, I run; or more so I frantically tread. Maybe it was the charm of the goose or the sadistic nature of the universe; somehow, I ended up waist deep in the pond. The pond, metallic in scent, thick in texture, knowing the goose, I knew too well what I was drowning in. If you know one thing about geese, know they can swim, if you know one thing about me, know that I cannot. Despite my efforts, the goose caught up and did what the goose did best.
I woke up. Though “I woke up” implies something much more gentle; I jolted up out of my bead, shaking, sweating, panting, terrified. My hand is clutching my throat because the goose wastes no time, she goes for the jugular. But when I shakily remove my hand from my throat, there is no blood. I’m alive, un-scaved, though I am still scared by the experience, I survived it. Relief mist my constoness mommentarly, leaving just enough space for the questions to come flowing in. what just happened. Well I knew what had just happened, I was once again, attacked by a blood thirsty goose. And yes I said again. This isnt the first time Ive had this dream, or have been murder by that feathery freak. In fact it’s happened 12 times before, this now making it 13. A recurring nightmare, where I am concerningly captivated, by a bird who wants me dead. I’ve never understood why, I don’t know what it means, what psychology is behind it, or how troubled my mind must be to conjure up such a creature. All I know is this is only the beginning of my troubles. The nightmare, terrifying as it may be, is nothing compared to what it entitles. Perhaps it’s superstition, my brain making up patterns when it’s purely coincidentally. But within three days of seeing that ghastly goose, something bad always happens. It’s always something entirely preventable and increasingly tragic.
The first time, I was nine, day three after that dream, my brother broke his arm jumping off the swings. Big deal, kids are reckless. Still, I was unsettled by the fact that this particular swing set had just been painted vermilion red. The second time I saw the goose was two days before our family dog, Dottie, was struck and killed by a classic red pick up. By the 5th time, I was far too familiar with the pattern. I remember waking up, horrified but vigilant, not knowing when tragedy would strike, only expecting that it would. Sure enough, the next day I awoke, choking on the thick smoke in the air. My childhood home was burnt to the ground; it was described as a hungry fire, it had consumed everything in its path. We should have been dead. The fire fighters said it was my quick reaction that saved my family. I was relieved. I remember thinking, for the first time, that I could prevent these tragedies, that maybe the goose was a warning, not a prophecy. Was the goose a friend or was it a foe? Did the goose create the problems or was she the forser of them? I didn’t know at 16 and now at the ripe age of 23, I am still unsure. Despite the answer, one truth remains the same.
At Least you wake up from nightmares, this was a living hell. Knowing tragedy will strike, but not knowing when. Just knowing it will and knowing it will be bad; terribly, awfully, horridly bad. There wasn’t time to wait around, hoping that I would be able to remedy whatever disaster came in tow. I needed answers to this long standing mystery and I needed them now. Thankfully, I had a lead, or at least somebody who would lead me to one. Far beyond being above believing in other worldly unknowns, I was more enamored by, than skeptical of the woman who had handed me that little red flier. That woman, pearly white hair, brown skin, wrinkles, lined with wisdom. her eyes, framed by crows feet; reassuring and gentle. you could tell she had seen everything and more. mid november, 129 days after my last goose sighting, we met. A Possibly chance, possibly fate encounter; She was sitting by the window, reading a book about a certain wanna be swan. I was compelled by her and her strange appearance; long curly hair, a red scarf to hold it down; Big hoop earrings and an arm full of gold bracelets; she looked like a goddess. I couldn’t help but stare. I knew it was rude. I was mortified when she looked up at me, closed her book and stood up. I tried to turn away, pretending I wasn’t looking at her. But she knew. I held my breath as she walked towards me, mind generating every possible excuse and apology.
“That book won’t help you” she cooed
One finger pointed towards the book clutched in my hand. It was an old book, worn by the passing of time; dusty, gold engraved title, The swan’s curse. I had taken to folktale and methodology, hoping to find a story with a conundrum similar to my own. Alass, according to this woman, this book was another dead end. Disappointment swiftly shifting to confusion, What did she mean by that? The woman reaches into her bag, pulls out a folded red slip. She hands it to me. Enthralled by her whimsical aurora, I take it, no questions asked. Then she leaves. I note that she smells of incense and citrus, then I unfold the paper. It was a flier for services that she offered at her shop. Written in black cursive ink across the page, it reads, “find me next time you see my friend”. A sentence that would mean nothing to me, if it wasnt accomined by a small doodle of a goose. So now, although I am still gut wrenchingly terrified for what is to come, I find a hint of solence in the hope that this woman can help. I pick up my phone, remove the paper from my nightstand. I begin dailing the number, but stop two numbers short; Is this woman a friend or a foe? Will she help me prevent the goose’s curse, will she explain the nature of that mystifiying bird Ive come to know, or perhaps she is helping aid that criminal creature? How do I know I can trust her? I ponder this for a moment, but only for a moment. I realized I didnt have much of a choice. That this was the only clue I had, that this was my only hope of finding out more. so I dial the last two digits and hold my breath. Ring, ringg, ringggg,
“Hello dear~”, a soft, just barely familiar voice, coos
The use of the word “dear”, maternal enough to soothe some of my initial fears. I respond back
“Hello… I saw your, um, friend again…”
There is a brief pause before she answers
“Why don’t you come vist me dear?”
“This conversation would be better over a cup of chamomile, than over the phone”
Guess i’m going to a tea party
I read her address from the flier. When I got there, I didnt even have to look at the number, I knew which house belonged to her. It was engulfed in foliage, a sight for sore eyes in a lifeless city. windows lined with ivy, flower beds on each side of the stairs; daffodils resting in potters on the window ceils. I walked up the stairs, reached out to knock on the door, but before I did, it creaked open. I admire the fact that her surprise was not abrupt, like everything this woman did, it was graceful. She opens the rest of the door, smiles at me softly
“I knew it was you. the tea is ready; make yourself at home dear”
Sitting on a stranger’s couch, sipping camomile tea from a cup that looks like it came straight from a fairy tale. It’s delisous
“I’m glad you like it, it’s homegrown”
She takes a sip from her own cup.
This woman has to be a physicist.
Before I can question how she knew what I was thinking.
She smiles to herself and asks
“Do you want to know the truth about the goose?”
My eyes go wide
She winks and states
“Dont worry my dear, I already know what you are going to say”
My eyes are fixated on her, my mind is ravonish, impatiently hungry for whatever she is about to say. I am about to learn the truth about the bird, that phonpmical goose that has huntend me for the majority of my life. It was almost too good to be true. The woman cradles her cup and looks into it.
“This tea is not only delicious, but has rather fascinating properties”
Curious to what she meant, I copied her movements, held my tea cup in both hands, and gazed into the remaining liquid below. That’s when I see it. Instead of my own reflection I see, The goose’s. Bewildered, my eyes darted up from the cup and back up to the woman. She has a coy smile on her face.
“Is it still not clear?”
“This tea is reflective”
I stare at her for a second more, then look into the cup once again, in case I had missed something the first time. Yet just as I had seen before, the image of that ghastly goose was in my cup. I cock my head, trying to see things from a diffrent angle; the goose does the same. I note this, turn my head again, and as I do, she does in tandem. We were in sync. Relization hit me like a knife to the stomach, the final twist being when she spoke, confirmed my epiphany.
“You are the goose my dear”
Horrified, ablustley, truly, revoltingly aghast, the cup falls out of my hands. It shatters on impact, the once pale yellow liquid, that to my terror had turned a dark deep metallic red, was now spilled over the floor. It all made sense now. I Hadent really thought much about those incidents, I had chalked them up to coincidence or a curse, Never onced stopped to think the curse was me. Yet now as I relive these moments, everything is so clear. I was the one pestering my brother to jump off the swings. Dottie darted out of the backgate because I was too lazy to close it. I was the one who carelessly left the stove on, causing the house fire. It was always me and my actions causing the dismay, not some methodological goose. I was the goose.
I was always selfabosorbed. Enthralled, enchanted, enticed, fully and utterly captivated by my own life; how could I not see this before? Omg, The blood. There was so much blood on my hands. I leave a trail of blood in my wake. One that is only visable to me in my sleep. The goose; an extension of my consciousness. the pond; a collection of my sins.
Oh that goose, drawing in unsuspecting folk with her womanly charm. Coaxing them to come close, just a little closer. Close enough for them to see who she really is; who I really am.
And that goose, oh that hungry goose; she will devour anything that gets too close. She will hunt down anything that dares look upon her pond of blood and transgressions with anything other than remorse and understanding, for the things that she has done. Oh you poor pitiful goose, how these tragedies follow you. Poor pitiful goose, now aware that she is the biggest tragedy yet.
Short Stories