by Amanda Vogt
I met a boy at the swimming pool once. He was skinny and flat—like all it would take was one jab of my finger to send him stumbling backward, sinking below the ripples of the water. We stood chest to chest, too close to the ledge, his suit dripping icy splashes onto my chipped polished toes. He pulled his sunglasses up to reveal green eyes that sunk into the skin of his face. I thought he was beautiful. As we stood in front of white strap lounge chairs I noticed his smell, like sweet summer plums just plucked from the branch. It was particularly alluring as it wafted through chlorinated air, hanging like fog under the skyline.
I looked back toward Janey who sat with her legs out on a fuzzy pink towel—the curves and dips of her body wrapped tightly in baby blue nylon. She peered up from the brim of her floppy hat and flicked an eyebrow up in curiosity. When I shook my head at her she just shrugged and went back to smoothing her polished finger across the pages of her magazine.
Janey and I grew from the pastures of Boise, sprouting among the spring wheat crops and weeds of wildflowers. Winters covered us in cloudy sky blankets and at night the quiet burrowed into our ears. She was my best friend, though recently I had felt the slight flicker of a flame like the heat of Atlanta summers could burn Idaho to ash.
“Are you going to get in the water?” I asked her earlier.
“No, I hate swimming.”
“Then why are we at the pool?”
“Because it’s a fucking heat wave and we’re too poor to pay for air conditioning.”
So, instead, I swam with the boy who smelled like sweet plums. Together, we dove into the deepest part of the pool, meeting again under the water’s sun rays. We spoke a bubbly language all our own, drinking each other up like we lived between champagne walls. Everyone who had ever felt real seemed to vanish the deeper we sunk. But I was still real, and eventually I had to breathe.
At the surface he was gone, but I wasn’t worried because I had heard what he said below.
“Meet me at the high dive tonight.”
“No, I’m afraid of heights and the pool is closed.”
“You won’t be. It will be all right.”
“Okay,” I said, and then, against my will, I had to breathe.
So I met him late at night while the moon hung high in the sky, dripping dew drops of light onto the pavement. I felt like a creature of the night—powerful and invisible all at once.
A metal gate, plagued with rust and coughing up old green paint chips, screeched as I tried to push it open. Hanging in the way was a flimsy chain with just enough strength to keep me out. I pushed my foot into an open metal slot and slung the other half of my body over the top of the jutting edges. I could feel blood begin to lick the tip of my finger as I nicked a chunk of skin, but I had made it to the other side.
As I moved in closer I could see his silhouette sitting over the edge of the diving board, his legs and feet dangling above the water. He spotted me as I approached the bottom of the ladder and gestured with his skeletal-like hand for me to come up. I hesitated, speaking in a voice as crisp and clear as the midnight sky. “I don’t like heights.” He said nothing in response, and I watched as my words ate away at their own echo. I’d have to get higher to tell him, so I climbed the slender ascending steps, one by one.
When I reached the top, he stood up and shifted himself across the length of the board so we stood toe to toe. I hadn’t noticed, but somehow he maneuvered us so that I was standing on the edge near the water, like a perfect dance that felt closer to flying than footing. His eyes bore into me, flickering and burning like the ellipse of a cigarette. I lifted my hand up to his cheek and he smiled, only something was off—wrong. It was a wolfy smile, with teeth so shimmering white I would have thought he could lap up the fresh-cut blood from my finger. I almost offered it up to him for a midnight snack.
I watched as his smile grew further and further, slicing through the creases of his cheeks, and with every carving I realized that my daydream boy had polished himself up so pretty it stung. Dipped himself in a plumb-y balm and slathered himself all over me. I pulled back in horror, wobbling along the edge of the board. His skin began to melt under the moonlight, and I looked down at the place where my hand had touched his face. The colors of his flesh dripped down my fingers in watery globs.
With my heels skimming the edge of the board there was nowhere left to go but down—nothing left to look at but his face melting over me. I shivered watching the pink of his lips slug down his chin in little fleshy trails.
Pieces of him began to drip onto my feet, burning the skin like acid rain. I thought about turning and jumping, but before I could I felt the slight weight of his disfigured finger jab into my chest, and with nothing to grab onto but liquified bits of boy, I fell backward into the swimming pool.
Donnas Stag
by Jack Dunnett
Amanda Vogt is a copywriter living in Buffalo, New York. She studied fashion and creative writing in college, her work reflecting her love and fascination for the beautifully bizarre. More of her pieces, including poetry and short fiction, can be found in Luna Negra Magazine and Bridge Eight Press. In her free time, Amanda loves a good reality show binge watch and going on walks with her Chihuahua.
Jack Dunnett is a mixed media painter who grew up in the Highlands of Scotland. He obtained his Bachelor of Arts in Painting from Gray’s School of Art in 2017. He currently lives and works in Glasgow.
Ignatian Literary Magazine 