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Fiction Short Story

by Jennifer Gomoll

Thunderstorm, 1890

Anya set down her brush and braided her hair in front of the distorted mirror, a tarnished relic, something she dragged out of the old attic before her father brought her here. The sparse room's reflection wavered along a seam where chipped wall met cracked ceiling; light rain spattered against the closed window, and a first pimple blossomed on Anya's chin. She frowned as she tied off her rope of dark hair.

Anya blew out her lamp. In bed, knees drawn under her thin nightdress, she watched the room flare with lightning and darken again. A crack of thunder tore through the air like a ripped seam. Heart pounding, she pressed her hands to her ears.

A baby wailed in the apartment above; floorboards creaked overhead as someone came to soothe it.

Anya shut her eyes, wanting to be soothed, but her father snored soundly in the next room. She allowed him sleep. He would leave in a few hours, and she would not return to school but begin work. Her days would be spent in front of a machine, sewing identical seams over and over.

Rain pattered against the window. Hard. The room's faulty radiator knocked and hissed. Anya kicked aside her quilt. She lifted the water-streaked pane to watch the black sky wring itself out onto the street as the wind pulled strands of her long hair free. Jagged, white-hot lightning bolts quickened her breath with fear. Fear—and awe.

A white flower, drooping in bone-dry dirt, sat on her windowsill. Anya grasped the pot in both hands. She didn't know the name of the bloom, only that her father bought it for her from a man on the corner, and that her mother had liked such things. She leaned over the sill with the plant so that rain splattered the soil and reached the roots.

Men walked in the street below, stopping to whisper and nod, shake hands or shove, continue. Droplets fell from the brims of their hats. One man tipped his head back to look at the girl leaning out from a small, high window. He made a gesture.

Anya's cold cheeks flared with red heat. She drew back her arm, but held it there too long. Only when she flung the flowerpot with all her strength did she notice that the man had laughed and moved on.

Down on the pavement, the white blossom in its broken container shimmered as rain pelted it, too delicate, too frail. Like her mother, like her father's money, another thing that wouldn't last long.

Anya closed the window and stood in front of the hissing radiator, waiting for her drenched body to steam, leaving her dried out and hardened from the pit of her stomach to her flushed skin. Thunderbolts continued to disturb her dark room with flashes of garish light and noise, but she no longer paid them any mind.

She closed her eyes and could still see the flower, beautiful and perfect, but gone.


About the Author
Jennifer Gomoll is a former office worker who now spends her days writing articles, humorous filler, short stories, and poetry. Her work has appeared in a variety of magazines and websites, including The Sycamore Review, The First Line, VerbSap.com, and Highlights for Children. Currently, she splits her time between her home town of Chicago and her soon-to-be new home of Springfield, Illinois.