Prose by Sheema Holmes

Sheema Holmes tells speculative stories, always questioning whether the present truly exists and to what extent it can be trusted. She often draws inspiration from Black Americana and her ties to the Chesapeake Bay region. Sheema is currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing from American University. 

Sway

Sweetbay House always had a nervous disposition and, as such, trembled slightly at the first sign of inconvenience or disruption. It was a squat, big-boned, built on place that had probably seen worse. The problem with the worst of it is that you don’t know it until you seen it. This could very well be the worst, or it could be a few drips of rain from the kitchen ceiling. Just a plop plop…plop into the bucket. Or this could be the day Sweetbay was stripped to the studs. The house was already tired and sagging from age, and didn’t want no trouble, so it stooped a little lower. Its normally noisy boards and stairs were too swollen to creak and the insects that chattered usually incessantly, bringing gossip and stealing sips of Sun Tea, had gone quiet too. Gone to hide in the rough folds of peeling bark and the cavernous imprints of rocks. The wrap-around porch held the structure as it always did, even as the shutters wriggled in the hot breeze. The breathe-wind swirled about, restless, a mama's hand pressed heavy on a sick chest. It moved, slipping between rails, tugging at loose shingles, rattling a pane or brick here and there.

They sat side by side, watching their watchman, a skeletal Crepe Myrtle, its limbs capped with blue bottles. It ignored the goings on entirely, only trembling when an interred spirit decided to twist in the endless curvature of its glass prison. It be fine, they thought. Their backs were straight as ever, their arms curved inward, trained by years of holding on tight to themselves, each other, nothing at all. And yet they could not keep still. A white dress smeared with a careless indigo handprint, a cornflower floral apron, and a heavy patched-kneed pair of denim overalls all lay in a limp heap on the lip of the Chokeberry door. It was a pretty thing, adorned with a polished brass knocker and an oval knob shiny from decades of use. They rocked. At first, when they moved, it was a subtle church sway, forward, back, easy like breathing. But the wind insisted, and they were possessed by it. Their movements grew quick, urgent. They leaned forward as if to rise, then fell back again, reeling. It continued like this for a good long while, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. There was a desperation in the arc, an orbit they could not complete. They almost tipped forward before returning to the tight swing of the back and forth, back and forth. They moved harder, more frantically. Faster, faster they lurched. Back and forth, back and forth. Overhead, the haint blue ceiling swirled just as the fickle clouds did, nearly blending with the deepening sky. A crash of thunder announced the rain, but the clouds would not release it from their swollen bellies. A gust the shape of a sweaty palm caught the edge of the storm door and hooked a finger through the hole in the wire mesh, dragging it forward away from its crying hinges, shaking it sternly before letting go. The door flinched, yowling, until it realized it had escaped and slammed back into its frame, bouncing twice before settling in. The rocking chairs shuddered at the impact, splintering into two heaps of wood, rusted nails, and creamy white paint flakes.