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Tuesday

Flash Reprint: Kristina Marie Darling’s “North”

North

Kristina Marie Darling

 

A girl drove into a blizzard at sunset. Her fiancé told her not to, and she thought about making tea or cocoa, but she started the car anyway. She did it because the road glittered in the lamplight. She did it because he told her not to.

The blizzard was the exact same temperature as her heart. She kept driving past barren corn fields, watching the snow fall. She felt a numbness in her chest, and when she placed her hand there, the warmth was gone. The girl began to worry and stopped the car.

I could have seen this coming, the fiancé said when she walked into the kitchen.

This didn't happen to you, too? But as the girl began speaking, she sensed the weight of her clothes shifting. Her dress crackled with frost. The frozen part of her fell off, leaving a small scar. The fiancé smiled.

You just became a wife, he said.

 

Note: Originally published in Tupelo Quarterly.


 

Author's Note

"North" was written in 2014 during a snowstorm in Buffalo, NY. Though the poem has been published and reprinted, the snowstorm still hasn't ended.

 

Author Photo.jpgKristina Marie Darling is the author of over twenty books of poetry. Her awards include two Yaddo residencies, a Hawthornden Castle Fellowship, and a Visiting Artist Fellowship from the American Academy in Rome, as well as grants from the Whiting Foundation and Harvard University's Kittredge Fund. Her poems and essays appear in The Gettysburg Review, New American Writing, The Mid-American Review, Third Coast, The Columbia Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. She is currently working toward both a Ph.D. in Literature at S.U.N.Y.-Buffalo and an M.F.A. in Poetry at New York University.

One comment

From Christian McCulloch

Kristi­na

Please… give me a clue so that I can unlock the secret of your sto­ry, ‘North’. I have reread it ten times but the last line evades me… please help. I don’t need an expla­na­tion — just a clue; I love mys­ter­ies, espe­cial­ly real ones.

Thanks

North

Kristi­na Marie Dar­ling

A girl drove into a bliz­zard at sun­set. Her fiancé told her not to, and she thought about mak­ing tea or cocoa, but she start­ed the car any­way. She did it because the road glit­tered in the lamp­light. She did it because he told her not to.

The bliz­zard was the exact same tem­per­a­ture as her heart. She kept dri­ving past bar­ren corn fields, watch­ing the snow fall. She felt a numb­ness in her chest, and when she placed her hand there, the warmth was gone. The girl began to wor­ry and stopped the car.

I could have seen this com­ing, the fiancé said when she walked into the kitchen.

This didn’t hap­pen to you, too? But as the girl began speak­ing, she sensed the weight of her clothes shift­ing. Her dress crack­led with frost. The frozen part of her fell off, leav­ing a small scar. The fiancé smiled.

You just became a wife, he said.

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