There’s Something in the Water Contest Honorable Mention
She looms above the riverbank. The moon casts her shadow, long and terrible and leashing her to the shoreline. It’s just like she told you. She never belonged here.
Your eighth son dangles from her lotus hand by the heel.
In another part of the world, you’d be glad to see it. Somewhere further west, you might sigh in relief. Rivers there mean something else. Rivers there make baby boys invincible, or something close to it, and then those boys become epic poems. Rivers there are loving mothers.
The river you took to wife is something else entirely.
Why? The word escapes your lips before you can catch it. The key to an invocation.
And you have been here before. The horned helm of Death glints on the other bank and you are not surprised. A vision in moonlight and flower, the river reminds you of the promise you made. No questions. No questions in exchange for a peaceful marriage. A marriage that has cost you seven sons.
Seven sons. Their souls lap against your feet, their ghostly shapes breaking upon the shore. Flimsy, moaning foam. You remember the sounds each of them made as she choked the infant air from their lungs. You have no choice but to remember; the waves mimic the noise as they thrash against your ankles. They are trying to pull you in.
She places the baby in your arms and tips your chin up to face her. How did she ever look human to you? The knowing moon shines not upon her, but through her, and you see yourself reflected in her alien skin. A gray, desolate picture. Was it so long ago that you would look at her and feel bigger than your body? She used to take you in her mouth. Look up at you from her knees through whirlpool eyes. You were the man who conquered the river! Now, you are just old.
The weight of the child in your arms is enough to set you off balance. You’ve not been a father longer than a single night. You look at this child that you and she made together. Ah, he has your nose. You wait for him to transmute, to turn liquid and run through your fingers like water. He remains solid as a stone, fragile across your weathered palms.
Your wife— the River— glances over her shoulder, dark hair spilling like the night unfurling. She osmoses with a final nod, sinking beneath the moon. No sooner than she goes completely under, the water begins to steam. A hiss of hot blood bubbles into the air. It curls around your ankles as the tide lunges for you. The stench is overwhelming. You can’t close your nose, you’ll drop your son! You plead for clarity from the eyes of Death and you watch him turn away. Your legs are lathered in searing, shrieking red. Something has been unleashed here, but you don’t know what.
You have no choice. You turn towards your kingdom, your crown, and your cold bed. Your son cries out for the first time. You rock him like you think you’re supposed to, you don’t really know. You are so tired of not knowing things but there is no fight left in you. You are only a man. Your back hurts. You are so old.
The blood follows you all the way back to Hastinapura.
Published 8/7/26