Margin: Exploring Modern Magical Realism


Oh, oh, oh! Her chest was pounding so hard, she was sure it would explode. The ribs were already on the verge of splitting like a brandy barrel. That little puckered radish, her heart, usually not much bigger than a piece of Valentine's candy, had sprouted overnight and grown and grown. It was now closer in size to a pumpkin than an artichoke. She had never been this full of herself. A madness had taken root in her heart and already vines were crawling out of her mouth and ears, forget-me-nots shot from her eyes. She'd forgotten how open a face is, really, so many pits and pores. And one could release this pressure pushing her chest. So she took a thin kitchen knife from the drawer and slowly pressed the tip, just the tip of it, between her third and fourth ribs. No pain from the cut, there was no blood, but a bright orange light came steaming from the slit and the slow hiss of air as she collapsed. Here come the mice who will hide in my husk. Birds were already carrying off the seeds.

a l l i s o n   d e   f r e e s e
p o r t l a n d ,   o r e g o n

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