SWAN
by Michelle Tandoc-Pichereau
e went down there. He went in his truck. The steering wheel slipped wild in his hands and he barely saw the signs. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten where he was, or even where he was, exactly. There was just a table and a cloth and when they peeled it open it was the same river hair, the same crooked nose, the same pointed ears that used to hear everything but the neck wasn't right, and even though he hadn't seen her in how many years he knew what her neck looked like, had held it in one hand nursing her to sleep, amazed at loving something he didn't think he'd want; it was a beautiful neck, arched and proud, and he was certain then, he would've bet his life, that she would grow up not the ugly duckling she always thought she was, but a swan, his swan. And this girl wasn't it.
Author's Note: Swan alludes to the fairy tale The Ugly Duckling and the Swan. I wanted to write about how sometimes, those who love us can't really see the reality of who we are. Or if they could, they're in denial. Believing we're capable of and assured a bright future, they're sometimes blind to the bleakness of today, and miss our subtle or not so subtle cries for help.
Michelle Tandoc-Pichereau grew up in Manila, greased elbows in Los Angeles and currently lives in Bretagne, with her husband Bernard and a spoiled cat. A finalist at the 2008 Kathy Fish Fellowship sponsored by SmokeLong Quarterly, she has been published in numerous print and online journals, including work forthcoming in the Humanist and GUD Magazine. She is a member of The Fiction Workhouse.