Winner of the Spring Short Story & Fiction Challenge: Superposition - Christina Grant

It’s eleven o’clock and Sadie is late.

She sits near the shoreline, the full moon’s light glinting off silvery water. She meant to pick up groceries before the shops closed since tomorrow is a holiday. She was supposed to 

figure out dinner—maybe quiche since there’re enough eggs but not sure if I’ve stuff to make a salad—really need to consider more professional development—how can I make physics more accessible for all students—and can’t forget cat food—that new place has expensive produce but it’s fresh—gotta call the doctor back—check with admin to see if field trip bus is firmed up—does my husband resent my need for time alone—imported peppers are cheaper but definitely can’t buy from that other place—am I fully supporting local businesses—is it cancer—do I call my children enough or too much—am I doing too much—

It’s all too much, so instead she is here. 

Her board is with her, as it always is. She slides it out the rear hatch of the ancient minivan: once cluttered with sippy cups then soccer balls, filled with middle school gossip, then high school tears, now empty except for the spoils from the occasional errand run. 

Sadie tucks the surfboard under her arm and jogs back along the beach. Puffs of sand give way to damp footprints, which dissolve along the rippling bottom. As she steps into the water, it weaves around her ankles like [a/Schrödinger’s] cat. Her head is stuffed so full that she has the urge to hop on one foot, ear tilted to one side, trying to shake loose the thoughts so they pour out and sink into the sand, to be swept up and carried away by the eventual tide.

Possibilities run in and through and out of her mind, slipping [into a wave function/under the breakers].

She paddles out, hands rhythmically scooping a liquid mantra. Once she is far enough from shore, she sits cross-legged, her body automatically adjusting as swells rock the board. She feels like a fetus turning in its watery womb, or an elder, being assisted into a bath. 

A clocktower chimes somewhere onshore. It is midnight. There is still so much noise. She can’t stop the electrical buzz of brain activity, its frequency like a mosquito’s perpetual whine. 

Sadie slides off the board and into the water. As she submerges, even the soft shushing of the shoreline disappears into the muffled silence. She holds her breath.

Thoughts come. Thoughts go. 

She holds her breath until the breath holds her. She sinks into [un]consciousness. 

[Probabilities/waves] break as 

another possibility surges.

[…]

It’s eleven o’clock and Sadie is late.

She sits at the shoreline in the full moon’s light. She was supposed to 

figure out dinner—maybe quiche since there’re enough eggs but not sure if I’ve stuff to make a salad—am I inspiring my students to be curious—am I fully supporting local businesses—does my husband resent my need for time alone—could I have cancer—do I call my children enough—

It’s all too much, so instead she is here. 

She slides her board out the rear hatch of the ancient minivan. Tucking it under an arm, she jogs back along the beach. As she steps into the water, it weaves around her ankles like a cat. Her head is stuffed so full that she needs to hop on one foot with an ear tilted to one side in order to shake loose the thoughts. She imagines them spilling out and sinking into the sand until they are swept up and carried away by the eventual tide.

Thoughts run in and through and out of time, slipping [into a wave function/under the breakers].

She paddles out, hands rhythmically scooping a liquid mantra. Once she is far enough from shore, she sits cross-legged as swells rock the board. She feels like an elder, being assisted into a bath. 

A clocktower chimes somewhere onshore. It is midnight. There is still so much noise. She wants to stop the buzz of brain activity. 

Sadie slides off the board. As she submerges, even the lapping cat sound of the water across her board turns to muffled silence. She holds her breath.

 She pictures herself undulating, unobserved.

 If a wave breaks in the middle of the ocean with no one around, does it still have the potential to drown? 

Thoughts come. They go. 

She holds her breath until the breath holds her. She sinks into [un]consciousness. 

[Probabilities/waves] break as 

another possibility surges.

[…]

It’s eleven o’clock. Sadie’s late.

She was supposed to

figure out dinner—should try to get back before the store closes—does my husband understand  my need for time alone—do I call my children too much or not enough—what happens if its cancer

Instead she’s run away from all of it and has ended up here. 

Tucking her surfboard under an arm, she jogs along the beach and into the water. Her thoughts spill out, sinking into the sand. Her lips curve into a smile at this new feeling of lightness.

Thoughts run outside of time, slipping [into a wave function/under the breakers].

Her hands rhythmically scoop out a liquid mantra. Once she is far enough, she sits cross-legged, her body automatically adjusting as swells rock the board. She feels like a fetus turning in its watery womb.

A clock chimes. It is midnight. She observes the buzz of brain activity like background static.

Sadie slides off the board. She submerges into muted silence, holding her breath.

Thoughts come. They go.

She holds her breath until the breath holds her. She sinks into [un]consciousness. 

Waves break as 

another possibility surges.

[…]

It’s eleven o’clock.

Sadie listens to the wind, as she has always listened to the wind. In these moments she is fully present, aware of its messages, the rise and fall of its notes, drawing her attention within and without. Waves function with an unfathomable rhythm of ebb and flow. She observes as every thing resolves into a single point of existence.  

Sadie has nowhere else to be but here. Now.

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As she gets older, Christina Grant lives both forwards and backwards in time. Her short fiction and poetry have been featured in various literary magazines and on podcasts. Her speculative fiction novel, Being Human, is widely available online and in print. She mainly writes about worlds that don't exist, but sometimes a little truth squeaks by.