Short story: Quicksand
I don’t like parties. They’re always the same: writhing bodies dancing chaotically in dimly lit studio apartments, filled with people trying to forget who they are or trying to forget that they’ve forgotten who they are, numbing the pain they’ve grown accustomed to drowning in. There’s nothing personal about parties, at least not in college. And yet, I hope that the next party I go to will be different. An unrealistic thought, I know.
I stood in the middle of it all. The Jedi sat with his arm around the devil as the gangsters laughed at their pictures with each other. The room was filled with an excited and happy chatter, but I wasn’t a part of a single conversation. I twirled my wand in between my fingers, wishing for a moment that I wasn’t just in a Hermione Granger costume but that I actually was a witch with magic in her veins. Hermione Granger would walk out of that house, unphased by the lack of attention she was capturing.
I felt small in that room of people, crowding each other, making the room seem hotter and hotter by the minute; that’s when I started sinking. I felt grains of sand pushing themselves into my legs and the ground suctioning me, pulling me into the earth. There was a circle of sand around me, just as wide as my hips as if it were created just for me to fall into — a personalized quicksand prison. My frantic eyes darted around the room, searching for a sign that someone, anyone had noticed that I was sinking.
“Hey,” the hobo smiled at me.
“Hey,” I breathed a sigh of relief and for a moment, the quicksand stopped pulling me under.
“Wait a second,” he said, playing with his fake beard. “Don’t you have a radio show?”
“Yeah…you asked about that an hour ago,” I mumbled under my breath as the sand climbed past my knees.
“Oh, right. Do you do that through student media?”
“Yes. Natalie and I do it together.”
“Woah, really? I didn’t know you did it together,” he gasped as if hearing this for the first time.
“I already told you that today, too.”
“You did?” The hobo seemed unbothered by his repetitive questions.
The quicksand inched past my grey pleated skirt, to my hips and stomach. Sand dug into my skin, pushing it into my ribs, inforcing shallow breathing; my lungs caught on fire.
“I have to go,” I croaked. The room went silent and for once, everyone was looking at me. I swam in the quicksand, gradually making my way to the front door. Their questions followed me as I turned the rusted brass doorknob: “why are you leaving?” My hands shook and I managed a shaky breath. I let go of the doorknob and turned around to face the costumes. The Jedi’s brow was furrowed in confusion at my early departure as I struggled with my legs, failing to free myself from the quicksand’s hold.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed, “really I am. I just have to go.”
With a soft open and a slow close, I left the costumes behind me; the dark outdoors was all I could see. The cold air filled my lungs and sand crumbled away from my stiff body. Stray grains stuck to the waistband of my skirt and tights, managing to cling to the inside crevices of my black flats. On my first exhale, smoky wisps of my breath flew in front of me and I grinned.
The twinkle of stars and light of the moon offered more genuine attention than a costume party ever could. I should have left earlier.
Emily White is a junior studying English and broadcast journalism. She is currently serving as the senior writer for the Lifestyles section of the Statesman.
—emily.white@usu.edu