Shapeshifter

by Tara Campbell

 

It sits on a new hill now, looking down at the lake at the end of the slope. It eats the same thoughts as always, but they taste different here. Its digestion happens not with a gurgle, but the gravelly hum of tires over rough concrete. Each hiccough is the song of a different bird, most often a crow. Every burp is a snippet of music blasting from a car window—hip hop, bachata, grunge, country—the one thing uniting them: excessive decibel level. Even its skin is audible, emitting a high-pitched, discordant whine, two tones grating a half-step apart.

Its thoughts are still too echoey for comfort. On occasion, a jet engine roars through its head, mercifully brief and far away. From time to time, sub-monsters stomp around in its skull, arriving at random intervals with quick and heavy thudding.

Its sneezes are the squeal of a window sliding on a reluctant track. When it settles down for the night, it sighs a low tumbling hum. Warm. When it sleeps, its snores are either a series of death rattles or the dainty patter of rain.

It regrets that, since moving here, it can no longer sing that one song it sang most evenings and weekends, the one that went click-click-whoosh, click-click-whoosh. It’s lost that ability here. And though it bought new jewelry with which to adorn itself in its new location, it finds itself missing its old plastic baubles, mismatched and old, yet familiar. It’s still getting used to the chime of its shiny new crystals.

When it misses its old things too much, it soothes itself by tapping its feet, toenails clacking like a keyboard. It runs its fingernails over its skin, light as new ink on smooth paper. It looks at black marks on white paper and dreams.

Some evenings it wanders to other parts of town, howling in a way that should feel familiar, but is not yet. It croons into the night, and it listens for more black-mark dreamers. And it hears them: growling, hooting, whispering, shrieking their own songs. They take turns sharing, the shapeshifter and the others. This should comfort the shapeshifter, and mostly it does. It listens, and it howls, and waits for the moment it will recognize itself again. It’s not quite there yet, but that time will come.

 

Tara Campbell is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse, and graduate of American University’s MFA in Creative Writing. In addition to JCCA, previous publication credits include Masters Review, Wigleaf, Electric Literature, CRAFT Literary, Daily Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, and Escape Pod/Artemis Rising. She’s the author of a novel, two hybrid collections of poetry and prose, and two short story collections from feminist sci-fi publisher Aqueduct Press. Her sixth book, City of Dancing Gargoyles, is forthcoming from Santa Fe Writers Project (SFWP) in fall 2024. Find her at www.taracampbell.com.

 

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