Brittany Redd
Being a lake has its advantages. I can move through the world undetected, uninvited as I am. No one bothers me; I like it that way. In the days I scarcely remember when I was a girl and not a lake, I would marvel at the big swathes of land along the highways, trying to imagine what it might be like to run through long stretches of green. I don’t have to wonder anymore (a lake tried to take me once; I don’t think she expected me to fight back. Never dreamed that I could drown her, too); instead, I crawl to the edge of the fence and let myself leak out in tiny rivulets through the barbed wire, flowing inward until all of me is through. When I find the place to anchor myself, I stretch out wide, scooping out the earth below me, welcoming the sun’s rays or the ripples of raindrops. By nightfall—when I can be sure I have it all to myself—I am a girl again, and I run through the expanse as I please.
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Brittany Redd is a teacher and writer in Thailand. Her work appears in paloma, Funicular Magazine, Middle West Press, and elsewhere.