2026 Fiction Runner Up: "Odie" by Isabelle Greenemeyer
Odie
Her grace transforms as her full body drifts across the surface. The once pale feathers, now dotted with grime. Her beak reaches down caressing her breast as her beaded eyes stare at the forest ahead. The lake has been under review from the Board of Environmental Protection for three years now, closed off for humans. But somehow the swan always finds her way back. Her mate, shot with a BB gun before the lake got bad. They never found who did it, but we all have our theories. Chuck, who lives about a mile down the road, told me he did it to make her suffer. I’m not sure if I believe him. For months after we didn’t see her. Everyone thought she had passed from grief, but I knew she was still out there. And when she returned, it felt as if she was looking directly at me.
My mom told me I was manifesting a terrible reality. Dreaming bad things on purpose that would eventually come true. I knew she didn’t mean it, but when her eyes squinted looking out the rusted window frame, I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. The way the light hit her golden skin, she looked like a torn page from an old book. The kind where you can see the wear. I never used to think of my mom as old, and she really isn’t. Sometimes it’s the idea that she’s going to die sooner than me that makes me believe that she’s old.
“Clean up for supper.”
Nodding, I grab my bag from the dusted floorboards. Shuffling as I make my way to my room down the hall. The house has two bedrooms, I was lucky enough to be an only child, meaning I get my own room. My room is decorated down to the bones, every piece of art or poem I’ve made hang decoratively across the surface of each wall. With guest appearances from the art I’ve been given. A collection of memories that never allow for a moment of silence.
I lay my bag down on my bed, reaching for my notebook. The lake was still today, except for the quiet hum of wires connecting each house in the neighborhood. Odie was gliding on the lake again, her presence I’ve come to expect. It seems anytime I go out, I see her. I think she’s still in mourning for her lover. Head drooping more than it used to, although that could just be old age. After his death, I go out and see her more. Mom hates it, she thinks the wolves will come out and grab me. She thinks I believe her, but I know there aren’t any wolves in the forest. I’ve been out there more times than she can count, and I’ve never seen any. I think what she should be worried about are the bears. Al said he saw tracks closer to the Miller’s house, about a forty-minute walk from here. They’re the real danger.
I rest my head on my pillow, the quilted edges coming up to meet my face. It was made for me by grandma, dad’s mom. We don’t talk about her much anymore, especially around dad. Mom told me grandma took care of him because his dad was in jail. He used to hurt him because of the war, his memories would come back and make him believe he was still there. It makes me understand dad more, why he drinks so much. He can’t handle his memories either.
“Mari,” mom calls from down the hall.
I hear the door slam behind her voice: dad’s home. From the gruff mumbling and the bang, I can only assume are his work boots, he’s not in a good mood. He never is after working in the sun all day. He never finished high school, so he joined the rail road. It’s tough work, but mom says it pays well. He comes home each day, gritted with dirt. Stuck into his clothes to the point mom can’t wash it out.
“Hi dad, how was work?” I know the answer, but it feels wrong not to ask.
In response he shuffles back to the bathroom to shower
Mom glares back at me, before returning to the stove.
“You shouldn’t provoke him when he’s already upset.” She gives me a pointed nod.
“You know I didn’t mean to,” I drift off. She is already done with the conversation, there’s no point in me continuing.
“Dinner will be ready soon. Don’t go traipsing around the yard yet.”
Sighing, I heave myself onto the sofa. M*A*S*H is playing quietly on the TV. If I had the remote I would turn it on to something else, at this point anything is better. It seems to be the only show the TV knows. Glancing out the window I see Randy, our closest neighbor, moving the decorations scattered across their yard as he mows. I heard once his wife is a hoarder, we never see her because she can’t get out of the house.
Our yard is empty for the most part, except the black cross by the steps. I like to think it wards off evil.
I hear the shower shut off as mom sets plates on the table. She likes to put out place settings she got from a flea market to “elevate” our dinner. Although I think we would need a lot more than 50 cent pieces of fabric to do that. She pulls the dishes out of the oven, rosemary wafting into my nostrils. She made ham and potatoes again, it’s the meal we have at least once a week. She grows the potatoes in our garden and gets discount pig from the meat shop. It was good the first few times, now it just feels like every meal blends into another.
Dad pulls the chair between mom and me, stuffing a particularly large potato into his mouth. He washes it down with a gulp of beer. This specific beer takes an entire shelf in our refrigerator, and I know dad has more in the shed. We don’t talk about him drinking. Or anything he does wrong in general. I think they are a product of generations of submissive women. If I was mom I would say something.
Dad talks about work, people not doing their job, other things I can’t seem to retain. It’s the same every night. The complaining almost makes our house seem more interesting, because suddenly the magnets on the fridge are all I can think about. We have the magnets they give out for free at the bars around here, and one from San Francisco, California. It’s the only vacation we’ve ever gone on and it was for Great Aunt Josie’s funeral. Mom and dad felt obligated to go because she left us money in her will. The other magnet is a star I made in school a few years ago. The yellow is fading to a cream color, more realistic to a star anyways.
“How was school?” Even though she’s asking the question, she makes it seem like more of a statement. Telling me I need to be in school.
“It was good.”
“You’re lucky you even get to be in school,” slurring his words as he reaches for another drink.
“When I was a kid, soon as you turn 10 you’re workin the farm.”
I turn back to my plate, placing bits of ham and potato on my fork. They continue talking as I finish it off. The juices of both turning into a cold concoction.
“If you're going to play with your food, you can pick up the dishes and wash them.” Mom is agitated again. She should take her own advice and not rile the beast.
Wood scrapes as a chair is dragged across the floor, the piercing noise reaches all the way down to my ear canal. It takes a few seconds for me to register the noise, what it implies. My eyes finally meet him as they begin to slowly bulge, slightly sticking out of his skull. He looks like a fish out of water, oxygen turning to poison.
Mom rushes forward as dad leans, his chair crashing into the hard wood. Nails ripping through his plaid button up to scratch at the center of his chest. I imagine calling for help, Randy might still be outside working his lawn, but some part of me can’t. His shirt tears, revealing his hair ridden chest as mom tries to pull his hands away. He pushes her back against the table, but she doesn’t come to him this time. We watch in silence as he intakes a sharp and final breath. His body covered in scars I’ve never seen. Some fresh from work, others from when he was a boy. They curl and twist with his veins creating a map of pointed edges. I’m not sure which of us called for help, or if we even did. I want to feel an overwhelming blanket of despair take over and present me as I should be. I want to feel any sense of emotion to make me come across as even a bit human. I feel broken, waiting for the disaster to take over and drive me into a state of utter consumption. I’m still waiting for it to come.
I think about Odie, still outside in the lake. Did she feel grief so suddenly when her mate died? The person meant to be the center of her world. I think of her wading off and disappearing for months. Maybe that wasn’t grief, maybe she couldn’t feel anything at all. Disappearing to escape the shadow of the person she was always supposed to be with. Only to return because the lake and her mate had turned her into what she was always meant to be. For better or for worse. Wading day and night as emotions trickle in, none of them grief. Love of the land and beauty in growing old. Her neck cranes looking into the blinding star, reflecting her body across the water. As ripples form into waves crashing onto the shore.
Isabelle Greenemeyer is currently a Sophomore at Kansas State University majoring in English on a Creative Writing Track. She is from Salina, Kansas. She enjoys writing in all genres, reading especially sad books, and spending time with her family and cat, Artemis.