Fiction by Elizabeth Wing
I’ll tell you a secret: my mother screwed a swan. My sister Helen and I hatched from eggs. Mother keeps the fractured shells under her bed with the crusts of honey cakes she eats. She’s getting fat. Cellulite roils up her legs. When my father is at sea she brings dancers and drummers into her chamber while we all get drunk. At midnight she makes everyone else leave. We start to go then she says, Clytemnestra! Helen! Stay with me! We sit on her bed and finish the wine while she tells stories about uncles and monsters, and our father. He fell into my arms, she says. He was chased by an eagle. He was all sinew under those feathers. His neck moved like a snake.