Scott Daughtridge DeMer

As of Fire

Aelia snuck into the damp crawlspace to be alone, and as a game, spoke whatever words came to her mind—bottle flap soothe dozen slice paint point done ruin and on. At first, she considered each word before speaking, like thumbing a dictionary and picking an entry, then repeating. Sometimes the words formed clusters—house led to roof led to porch led to table door window bed closet fan. If a word she’d already said came to her she repeated it, sometimes aware of the repetition, sometimes not. After a short time, word strings unspooled from her tongue, and she spoke without thinking. Faster they went until the words she’d absorbed in her life mixed with others she’d never heard, read, written, or spoken before, words that weren’t really words—forto numumb plek sezda upe, and after her known words went empty, the nonwords stitched themselves together in a stream of senseless making—ipd skiq poln yerf ntw bab vvv yuqt rnrnrnrn wg. Every bubbling space inside her urged more and more and the words gushed in long heavy breaths and when she inhaled she continued speaking but the volume squelched and the pitch rose and soon, regardless of her breathing, the speed and volume of her voice started to fluctuate and she could not control what she spoke or felt, but continued babbling faster and faster and in a flash she thought to stop, to close her mouth and turn it off but that thought dissolved because she knew even if she wrapped her mouth with rope or tape the words would find another outlet like through her eyes or nose or skin or scalp, so on and on she released the barrage of words and her body began to move in jagged pops and jerks she could not contain and soon she was on her feet, her hands tightening into fierce claws then releasing into fluid finger gestures then full arm swings whipped the air and her shoulders dipped and shook and her head banged about and rose and dropped and all the while the words burned in violent shout spewed in a voice that was no longer just her one voice but two then six then ten voices, some deep and harsh and distorted and others clear tones like ringing bells and others just forms of screaming and the air around her sizzled and her eyes flared from chestnut brown to blazing blue and her unbound body bled with color and wild dance until the dirt floor and brick walls loosened and drifted then faded to a dense black void through which she tumbled faster and faster before bursting into flames that scorched bright then simmered to cinders then smoke that cast a fine ash over the crawlspace that showed no evidence of Aelia’s being. But if you listen close, put your hands against the brick and your face down to the dirt, you can hear static crawling, ghostly clicking, and buzzing echo rising—Aelia telling us what she’s found in a language we can’t understand.

Scott Daughtridge DeMer is a fiction writer from Atlanta, Georgia. His work has been featured in Shirley Magazine, Heavy Feather Review, Gone Lawn, The Fanzine, Hobart, and other places. His chapbook I Hope Something Good Happens was published by Lame House Press. Scott also runs Lostintheletters, a literary organization that presents readings, workshops, and the annual Letters Festival. You can find him online at www.scottdaughtridgedemer.com.