Morning breaks the window open, sets sunlight to shatter on the floor, the scorpions to scatter. They run for walls, but Jordan climbs from bed, his dream head raw, brooms them to the door.
A young boy appears, still untouched by caution, a child who never had a fall he couldn’t master or a creature from which he couldn’t run. His name is Ethan. He climbs in through the window when the sun creates the trees each day. “Good morning, Mr. Jordan,” he says.
“Good morning Ethan. What do you do?”
“Same. I hear the girl that cries.”
The house is large with a hundred halls. The girl that cries is never still for long, moves from room to room, from nook to cranny. Townsmen say she fell from a ship in the sky, but Jordan doesn’t put legends in his mouth and chew. The island is full of tales and Jordan full of books and learning.
“It’s just the wind, Ethan.”
“Papa says wind is God and girl who cries, his daughter.”
Jordan pushes his teeth tight. The boy’s father sailed into a cruel storm; he’s not coming back. Ethan still wraps his heart in hope.
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” says Jordan. “We’ll eat pineapple.”
The island is blue with houses, and green with growth. From the kitchen they see sailcloth in the harbor, and at the edge of their world, the cerulean horizon.
Ethan puts a fork to his plate, lowers his mouth to table, sweeps the sweetness inside. “Where my Papa go?” he asks in between chews.
Jordan sees murky rocks and deep fish behind his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. Every morning the same question, same innocent wonder, same lie.
“Let’s ask crying girl.”
They walk halls, open doors, ascend stairs. Wind carries the girl from place to place, always around a corner to the left, right, up, down into the secret deep, carved into island rock. House sits inside a larger house inside an even larger house, nested like facing mirrors. Jordan and Ethan pass from room to dimmer room, twist themselves into corridors, spiral stairs around their feet as crying girl calls them further into recesses and farther from the pure grace of waves that break upon their shores.
“This way,” says Ethan. They climb.
Crying girl sits by a small window in the upper reaches of the house. Her hair lies matted with salt breeze; her cheeks streak with grief. She turns toward the door.
“Who?” asks Jordan. His eyebrows stretch higher.
She is daughter, she tells them, of God, who left her alone to watch worlds sail into horizons, who told her to weep for creation and wait until the tide of man turned. She is here, she says, to gather tears from all hearts and enable worlds to stem their sorrow. She is their concealed container, their diversion, that humanity may not confront their deepest anguish alone.
“Where my Papa go?” Ethan asks.
“In good hands.”
Ethan drops his face from his face and shows the boy inside the house, inside the mirror. A seed of manhood spouts there, but it is many years from a tree, and many journeys into a jungle of acceptance.
“He is your father now,” says the girl. She points to Jordan.
Ethan turns. “Truth?” he asks.
“Truth,” says Jordan. Crying girl nods.
Wind enters the window, swirls the girl into another corner of the house. Ethan and Jordan return to the kitchen. The sweet smell of pineapple lingers.
Image by Peter H from Pixabay – A narrow window in an old wall in a dark room
literally stories 
Victor
There are harder ways for the boy to learn the truth. Something magic about the island, Scorpion infestation withstanding. Name Jordan conjures many images, a Hemingway hero and an Angel (as in Here Comes…). Intimate little tale; sharp inner descriptions of the people and of a timeless place that carries an immense memory.
Leila
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Thank you, Leila. I suppose Jordan is a bit of a hero and an angel, although an everyday one who simply wants to help a child. Many thanks for publishing this piece. It’s good to be part of LL!
Victor David
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A strange little story with some sort of magic woven into it. Care for the orphaned boy is clear and the descriptions of place are wonderful. I really enjoyed this – thank you – dd
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Thank you, Diane. Glad you liked it. I might want to live on an island like that. Something about the sea that gets to me… Victor David
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Victor,
This is a magical, fast-paced tale that has the resonance of a parable or fable. As if it were an amalgamation of William Blake, Borges, Walt Whitman, and Hemingway, or Garcia Marquez, this story creates natural images that linger in the reader’s consciousness. The MOTION in this piece is incredibly good: it moves and breathes as if “alive,” which is where the magic is. Thanks for making a tale that creates mystery and asks more questions than it answers, in a good way, which is a rare quality in fiction these days…
dale
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Everyone you mentioned there has been on my list at one time or another, some from an earlier time, others still. All seeps in. As for asking more questions than answering, well… that is something I tend to do 🙂 I’m glad you enjoyed that aspect of it.
Many thanks for checking it out and commenting, Dale. really appreciate it.
Victor David
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Victor David
I could tell from your writing that you know good literature…those folks on that little list I mentioned are 5 of my very favorites, and it means a lot to read work by someone who also appreciates the same artists of the Word…
I also really enjoyed reading your bio. Thanks for adopting the dogs! I have three who myself and my daughters adopted…they’re actually all a mix of pit bull and Siberian Husky, but one of them looks like a pit bull (Bandit), one looks like a pitsky (Colonel), and one looks like a pure Siberian or maybe with Malamute fur and some actual wolf thrown in (BOO) (quite a few people where I live just think he’s a wolf)…
Thanks again!
Dale
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Alright Dale. Thanks for adopting those dogs. They sound wonderful.
Here, we’ve got three, all from the street. Chulo, Pita, and Osa. There’s way more street dogs here than homes, but we do what we can to help them out.
Yes, I’ve read a lot of Borges. One of my favorites. And Marquez. Another favorite. Also Hemingway. I guess I have a lot of favorites 🙂
Thanks again, Dale! Take care of that wolf! Victor David
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Victor
We don’t know if we are in a different world or in the same world with a different mind, but there we are. We read on to find what’s to be found. What a strange and wonderful place.
I know someone who writes fantasy, she says. Faeries who fly. Villains who villainize. I should send her “The Crying Girl” for her to experience at least the scent of what creativity can be. But I won’t, because she will never allow the sun to make to world each morning, nor the crying girl to be God’s daughter in the labyrinth where she lives.
So wonderful! — Gerry
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Glad you enjoyed it, Gerry. Many thanks for reading and leaving a comment. Much appreciated.
You never know with people (like your friend) though what might resonate. Actually, I’m sure you know better than me, but I’ve had a few contacts out of the blue with resonance or interpretations that weren’t part of my thinking as I wrote a piece and I’m always fascinated how we see things one way or another. Maybe similar, but different. It’s beautiful.
Thanks again!
Victor David
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As Dale WW Barrigar points out, it has all the resonance of a parable or fable. And the story’s power subtly heightened by those little repetitions: ‘Let’s ask crying girl . . . Crying girl sits by a small window . . . Crying girl calls . . . crying girl nods . . .’
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Thank you for reading and leaving a comment. My work does tend to lean into parable, so I get that part. Glad you liked it.
Victor David
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Well, this is a mid-week wonder and no mistake! Absolutely beautiful and intriguing in equal measure and laden with images that I know will linger. Thankyou for this!
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Hi Steven. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Many thanks for reading and commenting. Much appreciated!
Victor David
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Dream-like with good imagery. Kind of a philosophical fable. Very nice.
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Thank you, David. Glad you liked it. Appreciate your lovely comment!
Victor David
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This piece has a strong esoteric, mystical slant to it that could be fable, as others have said, or the world through the eyes of a misfortunate innocent child. Either way, the cadence and poetic lilt of the writing are perfect for this beautiful, sad, and wistful tale.
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Happy to hear that the poetic lilt resonated. Sad and yet with hope (I hope). Thanks a lot for reading and for your lovely comment.
Victor David
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Hi Victor,
I am so happy that this was published on the site!!
This superb piece of work was poetic, surreal and that wee bit magical!
I can’t really explain this but it was visual but not. My mind wanted to show me the story but it was all beautifully vague for whatever reason!! And that only added to the mystique!!
Welcome aboard my fine friend.
Hugh
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Thank you, Hugh. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Dale mentioned something similar, more questions than answers, which I suppose makes things a bit vague. Glad you’re okay with that aspect!
Nice to be on LL in all the fine company! Really appreciate you publishing the piece, and your lovely comment.
Victor David
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Reminds me of an Escher painting. Lots of dream labyrinths. I sure hope there is more to the world, like this whimsical glimpse into the mystic.
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Yes, indeed. Escher is one of my favorite artists along with Salvador Dalí and others in the bizarre category. My favorite category… Thank you for checking it out and sharing your thoughts, Harrison. Really appreciate it.
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