The Gremlin
'The Gremlin' was one of my first experiments into magical realism within prose. It didn't take me long to decide that I preferred to use poetry as a medium for such genres, but it was interesting to have a practise anyway.
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It had been a while since she’d last been in the garden; the grass had grown a good three inches, and the rhododendrons had come out in full bloom, their small, flat petals acknowledging her with a surprised wave as she crossed the lawn. She liked to think they were happy to see her. She crouched down low besides the lavender and muttered a quiet greeting, though it stubbornly remained silent in response. A swift gust of wind blew and she became aware of a sharp, foul smell transmitting from the corner of the garden. She walked through the grass, following the trail of the scent, her trainers disturbing the dew that had settled there overnight. She discovered on arrival that the neighbor’s dog had once again claimed this spot as his own; the ground was coated with faeces and sticks, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust, making a mental note to clear the mess away later that afternoon. Again the wind blew, causing her hair to twist and contort its way out of the clip she had wrestled it into that morning, blocking her vision. It was then that she heard the familiar creak of metal, the groan of wood as the breeze disrupted its sleep. She turned, and her gaze immediately fell on the swing.
Suddenly, she was eight years old, her thin summer dress just covering her scab-ridden knees as she thrust herself back and forth on the swing, dipping her head low and kicking her feet high for maximum force. The smell of the barbeque still hovered in the air, and she could just make out her uncle scrubbing the metal grill, head bowed in concentration, through the kitchen window. He must have sensed her looking at him, for he raised his head and issued a slow nod and smile. It was then that she saw it. It sat, knees tucked tightly into its chest like a sulking child, under the windowsill, its thick, scaly skin the same colour of the beige stone behind. Its long, coarse toenails dug into the gravel below it, burrowing deep. She stopped the swing, grazing the soles of her sandals along the ground as quietly as possible. She slipped off the wooden seat and crouched behind a large, neatly trimmed bush, hoping its flowers would conceal her from the intruder's view. She forced herself to take shallow breaths so as not to disturb him, frightened of what might happen if he came towards her. However, his ears pricked up high, sensing movement, and they began to quickly flicker and twitch. She tried to duck lower, pressing her body flat to the ground, not caring about getting dirt on her dress. She held her breath until her lungs ached and heaved, causing her to gasp out in pain and relief as oxygen reentered her body.
Immediately he pounced, bounding from the window to the garden in what seemed like one large leap, his sharp claws grasping at the hem of her dress, her socks, tearing the material as if it was tissue. She cried out and a rubbery hand sought her mouth, blocking her nostrils and eyes in the process.
“Ssh, honey, it’s only me.” He hissed, his voice familiar to her. His free hand began to grasp at the flesh of her thighs, leaving raw, red marks where his fingertips had been. She began to struggle, thrusting herself back and forth in an attempt to escape from his hold. It was then that he began to morph and change before her eyes. His thin, twisted body grew large and broad, his rubbery flesh shedding like that of a snake at his feet. His sharp fangs were replaced by a pearly white smile, and she gasped in recognition. A sharp, sudden pain erupted from the base of her skull, and the last thing she saw was the seat of the swing, still gently rocking in the breeze, then darkness.
The sound of the swing brought it all back to her, despite twenty summers passing since that one. She wanted to speak to her uncle, to ask if he remembered that day, years ago, but he was old and could no longer recall his own name. She turned away from the garden and re-entered the house, her mind aching from the things she had tried to forget. That evening, she lost hours staring up at the ceiling, her bath water cooling around her until her skin prickled and she was forced to climb out. She read poetry propped up in bed, though her eyes were glazed over and she forgot each line the instant it formed in her mind. She made a mental note to take down the swing the next morning, though she knew she would not enter the garden again. She placed her book on the side, not bothering to save the page she was on, and turned out the lamp, flooding the room with darkness. It wasn’t until later, when the birds awoke and began to sing their morning song, that she slept.
