Photographs by Wendy Hainstock a Eat 2, dk ae Se Babi ee BE iad ep She’s in love with him but she does not know it, just as she does not know where this bridge goes or even that it is a bridge. A bridge connects two places, two things, two beings to one another. Will this bridge, if it is a bridge, connect her to any- thing, to anyone? Perhaps it is only a pier, a dead end if one is not equipped with the strength, longevity, or pos- session to cross the water. She carries nothing with her so if it were a pier, she’d be required to test her strength and endurance (or was it her love and devotion) to get to the other side. Even then, would she dare to jump off the end? Would the water be hot or cold? Would it sting her eyes? Would animals chew her up? Would something draw her down to the bottom? She continues along this walkway; what- ever it is, it does not seem to end any time soon. Perhaps it would be better to return to the security of the things she knows behind her. She could jump off the side and risk the water; for sure she could reach the yellow grass over there. The sky is cloudless and lifeless save for the pale sphere of a daytime moon. As it reaches into space, the sky is fathomless blue but at the hori- zon it is almost white from the heat. It touches down to a faltering red-orange earth bisected by the relentless black line of the road. If it were windy, the sharp red earth would climb into the air slashing at her face and body, but it lies dusty and dormant at the sides of the road. In the distance there is a black mass pulsating near the edge of the road, most like- ly raptors feasting on a carcass. There aren’t any sounds, just the dry sound of heat. She walks along the road wondering if time itself has not slowed to a crawl. She scoops up a handful of dust. It looks so smooth and silky, but even the tiniest particles are coarse and braise her fingertips. She opens her hand and the dirt floats back to earth at the usual rate of gravity; time has not slowed after all. The black mass is still seem- ingly miles off, but she swears she can smell the rot of flesh. Hours later, the black mass is becoming distinguishable. It moves like vultures fighting over Her bare feet feel the grain of the wood, sun-baked and sun-bleached, but today it is not warm and no heat escapes. In another two weeks it will be cold out and this walkway will be covered with dew or frost. Her feet could not hold up to that. Perhaps she had best turn back. But didn’t she almost see the end? The gentle slap-slap of her feet on the wood quickens with the ebbing of her heart. If she could only reach the end then she’d know exactly where it went. But then what? Stay there? Jump off? Turn around? Night falls and brings with it a pleasant coolness on her cheeks. She continues blindly along her way. Her pace has lessened as she leads with the ball of her foot rather than the heel, her toes grab- bing gravity. In the next step there might be noth- ing there at all, not even her shadow would be there to catch her. White morning, she has reached the end, where she discovers a small, mahogany box of pho- tographs. She picks it up and opens it. Clumsily, it leaps towards the water spilling its’ flittering images. a kill, it has a shimmer like the beating wings of birds, but none of the birds ever seem to take flight. No, those aren’t birds at all; they’re black rabbits. She’s nearly on top of them when she sees that instead of fur, these rabbits have black feathers. The plumage is useless, they certainly don’t have wings to fly with, just their fat little bodies adorned with feathers as they hop around in the dry, red dust. One of them notices her and ventures over to the road. It cautiously approaches her feet and she stops to let it investigate. It really is quite beautiful, shining black feathers and deep purple eyes. She reaches down to pet its’ lovely head. It startles up and bites down on her finger. Hard. She can hear the gruesome, grinding collision of teeth and bone and feel the electricity of the two as they meet. She rips away from its’ sharp grasp and stands, clench- ing her finger in her fist. By now the entire group of rabbits has made its way over to where she stands, surrounding her, closing in on her. A pool of blood collects in her pale white hand, and a drop slips between her fingers and falls to the ground. A Walking She lurches to recover them but is held back by her waist. Her fingertips dip slightly into the water, caressing a portrait of a smile. She sinks to her knees, watches as the images lose their clarity, sub- merge and darken, her fingers resting on the water’s surface. She feels the warmth of the calming body that restrained her from diving into the depths, pressing against her back, embracing her, double embryo. Hands slide down her arms, clasp her wrists, gently pluck the fetus from the devouring water, folding arms back in. She turns her head to see who holds her, but the light of the sun obscures the face, all that can be distinguished is the smile. Her fingers go up to trace the lips, but the flesh disappears under her touch. She returns her glance to the water, one last glimpse, hoping an image has resurfaced in a ripple, but there are only smooth reflections. by Tara DeLong Home tremor rises through the feathers and the rabbits all skit off into the desert. Not wanting to remain near this place she starts to run. She runs until she reaches the black trunk of a long deceased tree. She rests against the tree letting her arms fall as if dead to the ground. From her finger the blood still flows, slower now, into the dirt. She thinks that perhaps this is where the dust gets its horrible crimson color. The blood of lonely little girls spread across the desert in gran- ular form. She slips into sleep. When she awakens everything is green. The tree she rests on has taken bloom with white blossoms. The ground is fragrant with clover and the earth has grown up over her feet and legs. The dark roots of the tree run round her arms, like black blood vessels. Nearby a child, a boy with bare feet and vacant blue eyes watches her silently. He moves with calm slowness, his face never bending into any shape of an expression. With him the urgency of her confining situation washes away. by Tara DeLong influx: Magazine April 1999 9 ‘She's in love with him but she docs not 005 or even that isa bridge. A bridge connects Wil this bridge, fits abridge, connect her to any Perhaps itis only a pier a dead endif one session to cross the water. She caries nothing with her soit were a pir, he'd be required to test het strength and endurance (oe was it her love and devotion) to gett the othe sige. Even then, would the dare to jump off the end? Would the water be hot or cold? Would it sting her eyes? Would animals chew her yp? Would something daw her down to the bottom? ‘Se continues along this wallway; what- cer ti it does not seem to end any time soon Perhaps it would be beter o return tothe security ofthe things she knows behind her. She could jump ff the side and risk the water for sure ae could reach the yellow gras ver there The sy i cloudless and lees save for the pale sphere of daytime moon, As it reaches {nto spac, the shy fathomless Be but at the hor on it almoet white ffom the heat. Tt touches (rat a faring ro erange earth Gccted bythe felentles blackline ofthe road. It were wind, the ‘harp red earth would climb into the ai slashing her face and body, but tes dusty and dormant at the sides ofthe oad. In the distance theres lack sass pulsating near the edge ofthe road most Hhe- ly raptors feasting on a carcass. There aren't any sounds, jst the dey sound af heat, ‘She walks along the road wondering if time ise has not slowed toa crawl, She soope up a handful of dust. Tooks so smooth and sik, but ven the tiniest particles ae coarse and brie her Fingerips. She opens her hand and the dit oats back tocar atthe tual rate of gray me has not slowed afterall, The lack mas is sil seem- ingly miles off, but she swears she can smell the rot fe, Hours later, the black mass is becoming distinguishable. Ic moves like vultures fighting over Her bate fet fel the grin of the wood, warm and no hea escapes. In another to weeks i Wil be cold out end this walkway wil be covered with dew or frost. Her fect could not hold up to the almost sce the end? The gentle dap-lap of her heart If she could only each the end then she'd ‘here? Jump of "Turn around? ‘ight falls and brings with i a pleasant coolness on her cheeks. She continues blindly along heey. Her pace has lstened as she lead with the bal of her foo rather than the heel, her tos gab bing grav In the next sep there might be noth ing tere a al, ot even her shadow would be there ro catch ber. ‘White morning, she has reached the end, where she discovers small, mahogany box of pho- tographs. She picks ieup and opens it Clumsy, i leaps towards the water piling it itering images kal i has shimmer like the beating wings of bids, but none ofthe birds ever seem fo take Hight. No, thor aren't birds a al; they're black rabbit She's early on top of hem when she sees that instead of fr, thee rabbits have Black feathers. The plumage is useless, they certainly don't have wings to ly with, jot their fat ile bodies adorned with feathers as they bop around in the dy, red dust (One of them notices her and ventures over tothe road. Tt eauously approaches her feet and she Stops toe it investigate. Teealy is quite beaut, thining black feathers and deep purple eyes. She reaches down t9 peti lovely ead, Ke saree up fod bites down on her Snger. Hard. She can hese the gruesome, grinding collision of teeth and bone tnd feel the eleercty of the two as they meet. She rips away from its’ sharp grasp and stands, clench- ing he finger in her Bt. By now the entire group of rabbits has made its way over to Where she stands, furrounding her, closing in on her A pool of Blood collects in her pale white hand, and a drop sips between her fingers and fills to the ground. A Se larch to recover them buts eld back by her ‘wait. Her Gogerips dip slightly into the water, Coressng a portrait ofa smile, She sinks to her ees, wats a the images lone their larity sub serge and darken, her fingers resting on the water’ pustace. ‘She feels the warmth ofthe calming body that restined her from diving into the depths pressing against her back, embracing her, double faubiyel Handa’ side down her arms, clasp ber wrist, gently pluck the fers ftom the devouring ‘eater, folding arms back in. ‘She tums her head to see who holds hey bt the light of the sun obscures the face, all that ‘can be distinguished i the smile. Her fingers go up to tac the ips, but the fish disappears under er touch. She turns her glance the water, oe last imps, hoping an image has resurfaced in pple, but there ae only smooth reflections Home ‘rcmor ies through the feathers and dhe abi all sit off into the desert. 'Not wanting to remain near this place she stare to un, She runs untl ae reaches the black trunk of long deceased tree. She rests aginst the tre leting her arms fll a if dead to the ground. From her finger the blood sill ow, slower no into the dirt She thins that perhaps thins where the dust gets ts oriblecrimeon color. The blood ‘oflonely ite gels spread aron the descr in gran ‘lar form, She slips into sleep. When she awakens ‘everythings green. The ueeshe rests on has taken boom with white blossoms. The ground is fragrant ‘with lover and the earth has grown up over her fet and lege. The dark roots ofthe tree run round her tums ike black Blood vessels. Neaby a child a boy with barefeet and vacant blue eyes watches her Sen He moves with ealm slowness, his face never bending into any shape ofan expression. With him the urgency of her confining situation washes by Tara DeLong influx* Magazine April 1999 7