Inchworms

          Another day brings inchworms in to see me, in their droves, they inch so slowly, slowly forwards. I want a word, I tell them, just one word, my pilgrim self notes down it all, a code for stitching sounds together. But the inchworms bring cracked shells, twigs and things of no damn use to me.

          I think in quotes as if you listened to my thoughts. You don't, you are not there, so even if I “dreamt about you,” just like that, you would not hear me. Even if I “loved you from afar,” you would not know. Even if I walked about me, room to room and “swore undying” to you, you would not reply. At night, the moon and stars turn up to laugh at me, skimming overhead from tree to twig, and I, “my heart so softly breaking,” ask for help, but they just head for home, and leave me, inching slowly, slowly forwards.




                                     She is Misled

          They are leaning across a table to kiss, but she is misled. While his hand cups her chin and his lips meet hers, his fingers wander and slide the Jesus Bug into her ear. She is unaware, feels nothing, it is designed that way. How many has he enthralled like this, how many have felt the touch of his lips and never realized?

          Those she works with come slowly to the conclusion that there is a change. She speaks of God in the middle of conversations where God is not the subject. She has never been averse to gossip, but now she purses her lips, talks instead of the need for church attendance and family unity. Her co-workers soon tire of her and she is seen often alone by the coffee machine or pouring herself water.

          Her mother is the only one to delight in it. Oh darling, she says, holding her daughter's hand, I am so glad that finally you have seen the Way. The daughter says nothing, because the Bug does not contain instructions for how to talk to those who already believe. The Bug was designed to draw in the lost, the faithless. The faithful are already inside the warm and comforting sphere.

          Sometimes at night, as she lies on her back and tries to fall asleep, she sees the face of the man she leaned over a table to kiss. She feels the touch, again, of his hand to her cheek, tastes the sweetness of his lips, and she wonders why he never called again.

Tania Hershman (www.taniahershman.com) is a former science journalist. Commended by the judges of the 2009 Orange Award for New Writers, her short story collection, The White Road and Other Stories, was published by Salt. Her short stories have been published in various publications and broadcast on BBC Radio 4. Tania is Grand Prize winner of the Binnacle's 2009 Ultra Short Competition and European regional winner of the 2008 Commonwealth Broadcasting Association's short story competition. She is founder and editor of The Short Review (www.theshortreview.com), a site dedicated to reviewing short story collections.