Marybeth Rua-Larsen
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Erin was trapped here for the duration. Her mother, Maeve, who always had a keen eye for detail and a relentless penchant for criticism, noticed a slight swell in Erin’s belly and assumed, with no other evidence, that Erin was pregnant. Maeve had given birth to Erin when she was sixteen, and she had been determined that history would not repeat itself. Yet neither Erin’s flood of rational explanations, like the fact that Erin had never had a boyfriend, nor torrents of protests and tears would deter her mother from this conclusion. When Erin refused the rabbit test – she couldn’t bear the thought of killing any animal – she ended up weeding the vegetable garden at Miss Flynn’s Home for Wayward Girls.
If anything positive could be said about the place, it was its location and the feral friends she’d made. Though isolated atop a craggy ridge, the ocean swirled around her in every direction, and the sea was her favorite kind of company — breezy and restless, just like herself. They understood each other, and as she knelt in the pumpkin patch, pulling up foxtail and goosefoot by the fistful, she heard Henry, the seagull she named, squawk for his lunch. They hadn’t started as friends, since Henry, on their first meeting, swooped in and stole her lettuce sandwich when she wasn’t looking.This was a place where kindness was hard to come by, so Erin now tore her sandwiches in half and shared them. In appreciation, Henry dropped the bright, shiny beads he collected on his travels at her feet.
Miss Flynn, well into her 80s, took in only enough girls these days to keep a roof over her head and the garden growing, and Erin, always good with plants and wild things, was happier outside in the garden than inside cooking and cleaning. She rose early each morning, eager for fresh air, hard work, and as few eyes as possible on her belly. This is how she spent her days. Nights were her own, and as summer turned to fall, she gathered her new friends and they ate their fill – an ear or two of sweet corn for Jasper, the racoon, and sweet potatoes for Ruby, the possum under the shed.
On the night of Samhain, when the veil is thinnest, and the past meets the present, Erin gave birth, not to a child, because there never was a child, but to herself, to the mother she would never choose to become. Jasper, up on his hind legs, twirled her around as she sang “Molly Malone,” with Henry’s beads strung and swinging around her neck as they danced.
Marybeth’s prompts were: At an Institution, a Thief, Dancing
Marybeth Rua-Larsen lives and works on the SouthCoast of Massachusetts and loves to straddle the line between poems and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in Hot Flash Literary, Eclectica Magazine, Trash Cat Lit, Crannóg, and Best Microfiction 2026. Her chapbook Nothing In-Between is available from Barefoot Muse Press.
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