Beach Reads: Here Comes the Sun

By Third Street Writers

This anthology of thirty short stories, personal essays, and poetry explores the sun as an agent of transformation. An ill-fated sunset swim. A weekend rendezvous with a childhood idol. A cliffside life-and-death struggle. The quest for the perfect golden tan. All of these moments and more await in Beach Reads: Here Comes the Sun. 

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Third Street Writers
• Release date: Mar 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9780997085327

Book preview

CHAPTER TWO

Introduction

The Alchemy of Sunshine

IN THE SEARCH for the philosopher's stone, alchemists theorized that the four elements of nature—air, earth, fire, and water—when applied correctly in perfect balance, could transform the common element of lead into the rare element of gold.

It is elemental transformation that inflects this collection of stories, poems, and personal essays. Each one of these carefully selected works balances these four elements of nature to reveal a moment of life observed and written about in an attempt to explore, understand, and in the end, tell us something about ourselves.

Air. So necessary and yet so unnoticed, air serves as an agent of transmission. By vibrating with music, filling a newborn's lungs, and lifting a child's kite, it brings freedom and joy.

Earth. The ground under our feet figures as a stage for a journey, whether riding a bike or walking on an island, in the coastal hills, along a jungle path, through parks, and on beaches, rarely do we leave behind more than we take away.

Fire. Transient and dangerous, fire stands in for the sun itself. It is the marker of the day, rising and setting on people who work to its rhythms, experience love and loss, and search out the last bit of warm brick as the night cools.

Water. The most precious element of all, life-giving water flows as rain, an ocean of salty currents, or a fresh running stream. Swimming, fishing, or simply watching the play of light and shadow on its surface, our interactions with water slow the passage of time and create a canvas for memory.

All these elements combine, just as words do, to make something that is as rare as gold and yet as universal as sunshine.

We hope that reading the works in this collection will bring you joy and take you on journeys as they show you delight in the ordinary and memories of the extraordinary. — RP

CHAPTER THREE

Air

Here Comes the Sun

By Christine Fugate

I AM STARING at three mushrooms and five peas. These odd-numbered enemies must disappear or my life will end. My paper napkin is gone, so there is no way to squash and trash. I shove the mushrooms under my tongue, but the slippery fungus touches my lips and makes me gag.

My mom, who is in the kitchen, says nothing. I will probably die right here at the dining room table, sitting in one of our brand-new upholstered chairs. There will be vomit and possibly blood, and, for that, my mom will be mad. She turns out the light and heads down the hall to the bedroom. My parents won’t even notice I am dead until tomorrow night’s dinner.

On a normal night when my mom only tortures me with chicken and rice cooked in mushroom soup, I would eat every morsel to her specifications.

There are starving children in India, she says when my plate isn’t licked clean. I looked up India in the I of our World Book Encyclopedia and saw only the Taj Mahal and a bald man named Gandhi. There was not one picture of a hungry child. I tell you what—I’m starving now.

If my plate is clean, the dishes done, and Mom and Dad don’t fight over dinner, my mom puts on Side Two of Abbey Road by the Beatles. The first song, Here Comes the Sun, is our favorite.

Mom does the twist and I follow. We giggle and swivel and giggle some more. Sometimes, we even hold hands and pretend we are fancy dancing.

It feels so good to laugh, my mom says. Every time. She always looks happier after our sunny swing to George Harrison. I don’t know why. My dad hasn’t died yet. My sister hasn’t been born, either.

When I am a mom, my kids will not have to eat vegetables, especially peas and mushrooms, I yell. My mom is now in the laundry room. And, I am going to have cloth napkins and toilet bowl cleaner that fills the bowl with blue when you flush, so the toilet doesn’t stink.

My mom peers into the dark dining room. Finish your dinner, so we can all go to sleep.

On a normal night when I only am tortured with tuna casserole with hidden peas, I beg my mom to lift the stereo needle to my next favorite song, Mean Mr. Mustard. We jump up and down, laughing and acting mean until the vase lamps wobble on the end tables and Mom yells, Stop. My grandmother gave her the flowered china vases, and she gave them to Alexander, her decorator who wears pants with flowers on them. Alexander had them made into lamps. I think they are ugly, but my mom acts like they are from the Taj Mahal.

I am staring at twelve pieces of sliced white chicken on a plate. Eat your protein, honey.

My four-year-old shakes her head back and forth. No meat. Despite my husband’s insistence that our daughter eat chicken to grow strong bones and muscles, she has declared herself a vegetarian. She won’t eat fruit, either. It’s basically pasta, broccoli, and peas. Yes, peas. Whenever she eats milk or cheese, she starts wheezing.

But my husband’s not home. He never is. That’s okay, Doodlebug. I whisk away the paper plate and napkin and toss them in the trash.

Let’s play hopscotch. I grab her hand and we head outside to the patio. She picks up a rock and throws it down our wobbly hopscotch grid.

Eight, she squeals. Go, Mommy, go.

I lift up my right leg, put my hand behind my back for balance, and hop as fast as I can.

Blues

By Anne Gudger

BORN UNDER MONTANA’S Big Sky blue sky, she took breaths, then steps, then runs, then skips, then heart-bursting, heart-mashing moments under the blue, blue sky that fit her like her favorite blanket, the one her grandma Sally gave her with its faded watercolor flowers. Sky kissed her skin. Sky tattooed her pores. Sky braided into her cells.

She knew sky before she had words.

Knew the shades. Bright blue in summer’s mornings. Softened to robin’s-egg blue by the afternoon, when clouds would slip in, sometimes like torn cotton candy, sometimes puffy with flat bottoms, like mounds of snow sizzling on a griddle.

She’d squint at the sky, name blues out loud, roll blue around in her mouth like it was her favorite marble, the one that looked like a tiny Earth. Sky, cobalt, Persian, Dodger, Egyptian, electric, true, ocean, midnight, steel, royal, sapphire, Alice, azure, Pacific, blizzard, glacier, North Carolina, robin’s-egg, indigo.

She collected blues. From scraps of ribbons to wrapping paper to the deep blue of a mug her high school boyfriend made in