At the edge of the feral continent, she finds a door. It is bare as a stagecraft prop, just frame and painted planks in coastal wind.
Here, then: what she plunged and journeyed for.
In the other world, her body lies underwater, cooled and still. Machines alone whir her consciousness along.
Whenever the prophet speaks her future, she can choose to accept it or to flee. She does not flee. She did that once, and never will again.
On the other side of the door, she hears a pounding. One hand on the knob, she lets her caught breaths go.
Rachel Ingraham is pretty new to this fiction game. Her poetry has appeared previously in Cicada, Wicked Alice, and The Fifth Street Review.
