Fiction by Ryan McFadden (originally published by Haunted Waters Press)
Joanie circled the curl-de-sac, and pulled in close behind the moving truck. She cut the engine, and the wagon rattled quiet. She sat a moment in silence, looking at his progress so far.
Their furniture was on the lawn, in the exact setup of the living room. The plaid couch faced the street, bookended by the matching recliner and a suede beanbag. Behind it the cheap floor lamp with the macramé shade, and in front a heavy coffee table, its top an old oak surfboard. Same old Goodwill specials, displayed for new neighbors; same room, new house.
She focused on her breath going in and out, pictured herself as a rock and others as untied balloons. But this vision quickly morphed into towers of boxes—all the work needed to make a home again. She tried and tried, but she never could get the stillness of meditation right. Trying so hard was the whole problem.
She cracked the window. There was seaweed on the air, the lingering remnants of beach fires. There was the low boom of breakers, landing and receding, and the rhythmic clang of the roller coaster climbing toward its summit, people screaming as it fell.
She’d fantasized about California so long. Freedom, sun, good acid—life like a moveable feast. And for a time it was this.
But she’d been here seven years, and the luster had worn off. Now she and Das, her husband, were starting this new phase, and there was a chance for something newly concrete. Santa Cruz? That’s where she started her family.