September 2026 "No, Not Me" by Paula Rawlings

     Philip and I rested on the edge of his grandfather’s pool. A few leaves from the fruitless mulberry trees overhead fell prematurely, and I extended my scarred pool noodle into the water and lifted them out. It was fun peeling the leaves off the pool noodle and slapping them on Philip’s leg. He didn’t like it, so he peeled them off and put them on my arm. I left them. We spent our entire summer, from sunrise to sunset, in that back yard getting a tan.

     We’d been neighbors for as long as I could remember. We were 18, and he was about to leave me, his best friend, to go off to waters unknown while I attended college at home all by myself. He said he wanted a bigger pool to swim in, metaphorically speaking, and I didn’t like the idea of making new friends. I still helped him finish packing.

    “You know, Philip, I can’t see you as a deep-sea diver. You can barely make it to the bottom of this pool.”

     “Says who?”

     “Says me.” 

     “And you’re scared of leaves. How will you handle forests of kelp fondling your face?”

     Directing his attention to the leafless pool, I added, “You’ll never come across sharks in this paradise, in this chlorine and bleach enriched pool, where your toes are safe and you won’t be bit in half, where waves don’t exist unless we create them, where seagulls are banned and people are few.”

     “Exactly,” he said. “I want to see the world.”

     “Pshaw, you mean the underworld. And you like the idea of getting bit in half? I hear people’s eardrums can rupture, and deep-sea creatures will burrow inside your brain and take over your body to force you deeper . . .”

     Philip didn’t acknowledge me. Instead, he lifted his stubbled chin to the sky and let his mouth hang open. It looked like the strings of saliva kept his jaw from falling off completely, and he froze. Lightning shattered the veil concealing Earth from the heavens. It looked like a bird hit a window. Water, like satin sheets, like waves on an otherwise calm ocean, seeped through the cracks, reflecting unfamiliar colors and sounds, falling over us, but it wasn’t wet. Philip tilted to the side and fell backward. He actually fainted. I dragged him away from the pool and tripped over a lawn chair. A rusty copper box fell from the sky and bounced in the grass. The lid fell open. Inside lay a matching rusty copper key. It was large for a key, bigger than my hands put together, with teeth, bent and grotesque. Under it, folded and crisp, was a note. 

     “What are you doing? Don’t touch that,” said Philip, and he slapped my hand away.

     “You fainted. Seriously? I saved you from drowning in the pool,” I said, and I slapped his hand, and he slapped mine, so I slapped his hand back, grabbed the key, tossed it in the roses, unfolded the note, and read it out loud:

Patricia, on my last visit to Earth I left something at the bottom of the Arafura Sea. I left you the key. I’ll be back next month. I’ll find you. Don’t be late.

Kind regards, Bria

Philip reached for me, so I thought. Instead, he pealed the leaves off my arm as I shook my head.

“No, not me.”