Liminal

Fiction / Short Story

I published Liminal serially, releasing scenes on Read Write Repeat as I wrote them, between 2022 and 2024. Here’s the full story collected into a single post. Leave me a comment and let me know what you think of it. And, if you have an opinion, let me know what genre this is. I’m uncertain.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

There is of late a feeling within me such as I have never known. Something natural, certainly, and yet miraculous, rising within the very core of me, coursing through my limbs, invigorating me. I feel expanded, solid, vital.

It is love.

I feel certain of this, though the sensation is wholly new to me.

How can I, one who is naive to such feelings, be certain it is love that grips me?

I know its name because I know what inspires it.

Her name is Mathilde, and she is most lovely, with a plait of blonde hair switching about her shoulders as she appears, cresting the distant rise and descending the forest trail toward me, the afternoon sun at her back limning her lithesome figure through the linen of her simple sundress.

Does she glow? She does. Each time that same sun through the forest’s canopy finds her upon her way along the path — oh! — how that luminous vision does cause me to abate my breath.

Does she float upon the winds? I think not, though she is small, and so buoyed in her stride by an effervescent passion of her own — I pray that hers is such a passion as to requite my own — that she conveys to the casual eye the lilt of a russet leaf borne along upon autumn’s meandering breeze.

Thus does she approach now, as on most days, in apparent ease and possessed of no hurry, glowing by turns in patches of sunlight, floating almost, and that feeling that courses within me quickens as her eyes of gold-flecked hazel light upon me, and her mouth spreads into a broad and generous smile. Her steps hasten as she nears, she rushes, and she fairly collides into my immovable form, wrapping her arms around my middle and leaning her sun-blushed cheek upon me. She whispers my name:

“Florent.”

In this manner and by these means do I find myself enchanted.

Swoony. That’s how I feel. I heard Momma tell Daddy on their wedding anniversary that he made her swoon. I don’t know that word so I looked it up and it’s overwhelmed with ecstatic joy. According to the dictionary. I don’t know ecstatic either but I looked it up. Perfect.

I’m swoony because today is the day I’ve been waiting and waiting for. For two weeks. Simone is in third-period biology with Hugo and he’s best friends with Florent and she told Hugo to tell Florent to meet me after school on the path by the gigantic oak tree in the bosquet. Between the little stone bridge and the hillock. After the hillock but before the bridge.

I took all of my dresses out of my closet and piled them on my bed. Then all of my stockings, then my chemisiers, then my shoes. I matched them up all different ways and I took snaps and sent them to Simone so she could help me pick the perfect outfit. I want to look perfect. I’m not totally obsessed with clothes like Léa and Camille, but I see how Florent always watches them in the lunchroom and I want him to notice ME. Is that conceited? Simone says Léa is conceited, but I like her okay. We have geometry.

Last week in civics we were doing a group project and Florent was sitting by me and he leaned over and touched me right on the shoulder of my sweater and he said “There’s a hole in your sweater” and I looked and there was a little rip in the seam so I was totally embarrassed but I think I hid it okay. I just said “Oh, thanks.”

That’s how I met Florent. Thanks to a hole in my sweater. But I’d already seen him, of course. He has blue eyes which I just love and brown hair that is really curly and kind of longish but not too long. He doesn’t look like a girl or anything. Ha! He usually wears a jersey of Saint-Étienne which I guess is his favorite football club or sometimes he wears the top from a tracksuit or a hoodie.

Anyway, I can’t wait until school is done. I’m so nervous and I keep watching the clock and looking over at Simone and she totally has this like secret smile because she knows today is it.

Finally the bell rings and Simone and I meet in the girl’s room and I brush my hair in the mirror and put in a barrette while Simone walks around me and takes snaps and tells me I’m “breathtaking.” Right. Then she says good luck and she kisses me on my cheek and I go out of the school and across the yard and onto the path through the bosquet. I can feel my heart racing. I can’t wait to see Florent and finally talk to him. I hope he likes me as much as I like him.

Florent is not my first boyfriend. That’s Léo. He’s this boy I kissed at a party at this girl Jolie’s house after the last day of cinquième. It was night and a bunch of us were in her back garden listening to music and some kids were dancing and Léo was talking to me a lot and then he held my hand and we walked out to the very back of the garden where this huge lilac bush grew along the fence and we sat down in the grass in this kind of dark space behind the lilac bush and we kissed for a long time. But then it was summer and I didn’t see him for the rest of les vacances and when we came back we weren’t really boyfriend and girlfriend anymore. So sad. But not really.

But I’m totally excited about Florent because Simone said that Hugo said that Florent wanted to meet me and so I’m hurrying but not too much because I don’t want to be breathing like a crazy person when he sees me. Or sweating.

I’m almost there and I can picture him waiting for me, right where the sun comes through the trees and makes it warm and super romantic under the giant oak tree and that’s why I picked this spot. Probably he has a flower for me or maybe a charm. Or even a poem that he wrote for me. Camille got a poem from this boy in 3e and it was on notebook paper so kind of lame but he drew a little rabbit on it and he’s a good artist. She showed all of us and I was totally jealous. So I hope that’s the kind of boy that Florent is.

And then I go up the path over the hillock and I can see the tree and I start down and I’m looking all around for Florent but I don’t see him. And the sunlight is right there and it’s perfect for us to meet and I go down the hill and into the patch of sun. He will be here any minute.

While I wait I touch my hand on the oak tree and think about what I’ll say when Florent gives me the charm or poem or whatever. The bark is really rough and kind of flaky but it feels good on my palm. I can see how each bark piece is a little island with like streams running all around it. Not really but I imagine it like that. Lots of little islands and lots of little streams, and maybe there are very tiny creatures like ants or something living on the islands or maybe only one on each island and they’re trying to get to the other island to see the other ant but the stream is too big to cross.

I wait like twenty minutes. I don’t know because I forgot to look at my phone clock when I got here but it seems like twenty minutes. Maybe more. All I know is that it’s not the perfect time anymore. The sun moved off of this spot and now it’s a little bit chilly and I’m starting to shiver. Probably Hugo didn’t tell Florent or maybe he had to do sports after school or something. It’s not his fault. Tomorrow I’ll tell Simone to tell him to meet me. Or maybe I’ll even tell him myself.

Okay, I guess I’m kind of mad. Or sad. I mean I picked out this dress especially for meeting him. Too bad, so sad. But not really.

I give the big oak tree a hug instead, then I go down the path toward home.

Perhaps when you hear me declaim myself enchanted you take me to mean enchantment in some abstract sense, as one might use the word upon hearing a gloriously dulcet passage of birdsong or spying an autumnal moon slipping through luminescent clouds.

If so, you misapprehend me.

I do not mean enchanted in any abstract sense, nor to denote delight or beguilement. Rather, I speak the word in its most urgent, original, and archaic sense, to wit: I find myself the subject of an incantation. Or should I say victim? Yes, victim of an incantation. For I am bewitched. Ensorceled.

Enchanted.

What’s more, I believe most fervently that the speaker of said incantation is none other than the object of my most florid ardor, that flaxen-haired but black-hearted sorceress Mathilde.

No, I go too far. Certainly her heart is as lovely as the faint splash of freckles across her nose. She is merely naive, she plays at sorcery, it is an amusement, a girlish game to pass the time. It is my fervent belief that she knows not the meaning or the ends of the words she speaks, her cheek pressed tight against me, her voice a whisper, her breath warm.

Nevertheless, the result of her thrice-whispered words is evident, inarguable. “Make him mine,” she breathed, and even the birds halted their song, the crickets ceased their chirruping. “Make him mine. Oh, make him mine.” And with that, the spell was conjured, and I found myself stricken.

Immobilized.

Frozen.

I hear. I see. I feel. But I am trapped inside this form, unable to move, to reach, to touch, to speak. I want to enfold Mathilde in my arms, sing to her of her beauty and her grace, banish her shadowed doubts that I am anything but hers, deeply, completely, eternally.

But I cannot. I cannot! I strain, with every fiber of my being, my thoughts a chaotic storm of rage, of fear, of uncertainty, of confusion. Surely with force of will I can cast off these invisible fetters, but wherefrom do I draw my strength when all has been drained away?

Mathilde, seemingly blind to my entrapment — though she be the cause, I feel this most certainly — lingers, then sighs, then pulls away, turns a melancholy pirouette in the streams of late afternoon sunlight, and strides off along the footworn path.

And so I entreat you: Should you happen upon me here, in these rapidly darkening woods, standing still and silent, do not pass by. Do not leave me alone.

For I am heartsick. And I am afraid. And it grows cold.

So you already know Florent didn’t show up. He was supposed to meet me after school. In the bosquet, by the oak tree. But I waited like an hour and he never came. Simone was super excited this morning to hear how it went. When I told her between periods she got super mad. She marched off to find Florent or maybe Hugo because Hugo was supposed to tell Florent to meet me.

Then before géométrie she found me in the hallway and she told me that Hugo never told Florent. See? I knew it wasn’t his fault.

Even though I didn’t spend a bunch of time picking out my clothes like I did yesterday, I decided to try to meet him again after school today. I wrote a note and gave it to Simone to give to Florent — NOT Hugo this time, because he’ll mess it up. Only to Florent.

The note said “Hello Florent. Simone said you like me. I like you too. We can meet after school on the path by the gigantic oak tree. Before the stone bridge. I’ll wait for you. I have something to show you. I hope you’ll bring me something too so I know you’re serious. Mathilde.”

I folded the note in the special way for secret notes, with the corners tucked under. Then I pressed my lips against it softly like I was kissing Florent. Simone laughed and rolled her eyes. I told her to make sure Florent gets it and make sure he reads it this time.

At lunch I found Léo and asked him if I could borrow his knife and bring it back tomorrow. He seemed suspicious but I gave him my best look and he said okay. He really is a sweet boy. Too bad we didn’t fall in love.

I need the knife because I have a plan for Florent.

Oh my god I just realized that I’m wearing the same sweater. The one that Florent touched. With the tiny hole in the shoulder seam. Maybe that’s a good sign. Or one of those things we studied in litté, a metaphor or symbol or something. I can’t remember. Anyway, it’s super cute and Florent touched it. I wonder if he’ll remember that when I see him.

After school I hurried so fast to the bosquet that I tripped on a root and I almost fell. Can you imagine if that happened? And Florent got there and I was all covered in dirt and probably blood?

But I didn’t. I got to the oak tree and I called his name. In case he was there already and he was hiding. No answer. So I practiced what I want to say to him. I felt stupid saying it out loud, but nobody could hear me. I walked back and forth in the tree shade saying my lines. I felt like I was in a play, and I tried to sound very dramatic and meaningful.

After I practiced it I got out the knife. Léo showed it to me last spring that night when we kissed under the lilac bush. He said it was his grandfather’s. The handle is black and shimmery like some kind of black crystal rock if that’s a thing. It only has one blade but it’s big.

I open it up and push the point into my palm. Not too hard but hard enough to test it. It’s really sharp. I poke it into the tree bark and chip away a little piece. This will work perfect for my plan.

Florent will not be expecting this.

Oh!

How my agony does persist!

To whom do I pray for relief? Or for release?

The druids who once walked these woods, who filled the gentle breezes and the storm-wracked nights alike with their benevolent and protective incantations, are centuries gone now, insensate, their spirits unheeding of my cry. And so I stand, quivering, cold, consumed with desperation.

I am bound by invisible cord, pinioned, a moth thrashing silently, futilely, against the unyielding grip of the spider’s silk.

I am both in this space and outside of it. Alienated. Alone. Trapped in a liminal space between myself where I stand and all that surrounds me.

And now. Now the spider draws nigh.

I tremble with fear, and yet…

And yet I offer her my embrace. Arms spread, head bowed, I desire her touch tho my every fiber screams for me to flee.

I cannot.

Cannot and would not.

She descends the path, that familiar glint of fleeting sunlight on her cheeks. So lovely. So terrifying.

She is here. I feel her brush against me. Her breath warm and sweet upon my chest. She calls out for me.

I am mute.

Then I see it, the means of my demise, the spider’s sting, its deadly point poised to strike.

I am helpless. I give myself completely to what will come.

She tests its terrible sharpness, presses, withdraws, then again. My breath is trapped, shuddering.

She strikes. Drives the dagger into my belly. The pain sears me, explodes within me, I watch as the color drains from the world. All shape and shade blurs. All form fades to blackness.

She twists the blade, begins to cut away my flesh.

Oh, Mathilde.

Mathilde.

I am not so great with this knife and the bark is really hard but I figured out that I can chip it. Not cut it. If I chip it I can make lines where the white wood shows through the brown bark. It’s pretty good. The heart looks like a heart mostly and you can see the F+M in the middle.

I think Florent will like it.

It is agony.

Why does gentle Mathilde savage me so?

Am I not what she has been pining for, so heartsick, so stricken, for all these days?

Is it days?

Or is it centuries? They all flow in the same rushing river, do they not, the days, the months, the years, the centuries, so the water of one stream is indiscernible, indivisible, from that of another. They are one, they are unceasing, they rush on, over me and through me.

As does this pain.

As does this loneliness.

I hear him coming now through the bosquet because he is singing a stupid song. I don’t care. I’m just so happy he’s here. Finally.

I call out to him. “Florent!”

He smiles and waves when he sees me under the oak tree. I try to stand so he will see the heart I carved. When he gets close I say “You got my note.”

“Yes,” he says, and he pulls it from his pocket to show me. “So, you like me,” he says. Then I see him see the heart. His eyes get real wide and he makes a smirk I guess. A weird smile. “Did you do that?” he asks.

I hold up the knife. Then I point it at him.

“Oh,” he says. “You’re SO dangerous.”

I decide I like to seem dangerous. “What’s the answer?” I ask. I lean back against the oak and I bend my leg to put my foot up against the tree trunk. I think I look like a model.

“The answer to what?”

“The answer to my note.” Boys really can be so dense. I am totally ready for him to kiss me.

He unfolds the note and reads it. “There’s no question,” he says.

I groan. I hope he is not a dope. Because he is so cute. “Do you like me?” I say, as dangerous as I can sound. I want to sound alluring or something but I only sound mad.

He nods and smiles. Maybe he’s shy. I didn’t think of that.

“You like me?”

He looks at his shoes. “Yes.”

“Then I would like you to kiss me.”

“Okay.” He pushes the note into his back pocket and he walks toward me real slowly. It’s so exciting. I reach out my hand and he touches it. His hand is so soft. Then he presses against me, squishing me against the oak tree, with his arms around me, and then I feel his lips touch mine.

I take a breath and I whisper his name, right into his mouth.

“Florent.”

I shudder. My entire being quakes to hear her call him by my name.

If he is Florent, then who am I? I, who has answered eagerly to that name since first she in her lithesome form glided beneath my branches.

I am Florent. I know it to my core. Yet the evidence before me shakes my confidence.

She rests against me lovingly, I feel the warmth of her body pressed to mine. Her glorious flaxen hair cascades along the corrugations of my bark.

My bark. My branches. I hear it now, and all at once I know what I am.

The sorceress has entombed me in this cursed form, immobile, forever longing.

I am love embodied, sensate, yet without a mouth to speak, without arms to enfold, no tears, no racing heart, no shuddering breath.

The waters of all these days, this terrible truth, flow within me, through me, onward for eternity.

And Mathilde and Florent walk off, hand in hand, through the dappled sunlight.