Chelsea Wallis

It was sometime after 8:30 am when I saw Pele the Hawaiian fire goddess in the Chicago subway on my way to work. I had my headphones in — had turned up Queen's 'Don't Stop Me Now' because the file hadn't downloaded properly and the song was softer than other tracks. Her shoes came to rest beside me, plain white sneakers and socks bunched around the ankle. She was filled through the middle with formless lavender capris and a matching button-down shirt, the body disconnected from a drifting face behind square sunglasses and wild smoky hair.

The train lurched from the station and she swayed unsteadily, grasping the metal rail with a frail hand. I took out an ear bud and stood, asked her if she wanted to sit. She gave me a toothy grin and I saw her form a 'thank you,' but I can't remember her voice. I can't even say what language. Because as she slowly lowered herself into the seat on the crowded train, the dress pattern on the girl standing next to me began to peel from the fabric. Paisley teardrops in teal and tangerine curled upward like ruffled feathers, stood on end like static...