Homecoming
by Robyn A Hay

vol 3
num 7

The neighbours never complain, never enquire why strange stone parodies of household pets litter the front lawn. They enjoy the spectacle; amaze at the craftsmanship in each piece. To this, he simply smiles and gushes about his wife's extraordinary talent. Though he hesitates when they ask about her directly, claims she spends most of her free time with their two children.

It's late when he pulls into the driveway after a long days work spent amidst the drudgery of clients and their never ending requests. The car's headlights reveal a lone newspaper resting on the sidewalk. He takes a deep breath before leaving the car, aware of how strangely alive the statues appear. At that moment, he's glad she keeps her human-size projects in the back garden, hidden amid the overgrown mugo pines and willow trees.

He enters the house through the side door, lets his briefcase drop to the floor, not caring about its creak of protest. The thump ricochets off the walls, yet there are no small feet bounding down the stairs to welcome father home. Even if they wake, the risk is too high when this house involves surprise.

He goes to the fridge, pulls out a jug of milk and takes a drink. Rivulets drip down his chin, soaking the front of his shirt. When he places the empty carton on the counter, he knocks over something small that crashes to the tile floor. A strange realization fills his soul as he stares at the shattered remnants of what was a gift to his son. He knows he's home but feels strangely out of place. Sometimes he wonders if his children only see him as the man who supplies food and board. Would they even recognize him in a room full of middle-aged men?

Plush carpet presses against his feet as he climbs the stairs. The air on the upper floors is stale, like in a museum.  But when he sees the door to the master bedroom is open, it's a welcome sight. He knows she is awake and waiting for him.

He quickly undresses and washes his face, acutely aware of the empty space on the wall where a mirror should be. The soap feels rough, but smells strongly of apricot and honey.

He climbs into bed, careful to keep his eyes averted.

A cold hand painstakingly pulls the covers up over his shoulder. A gentle murmur of welcome from behind as a tail wraps around his thigh, warm and slick to the touch.

"Jonah killed his hamster today," she says. "Will you bring him another? Perhaps something exotic would be fun. The children rarely experience much beyond what they see on the television."

He shivers, enjoying the gentle hiss and flick of her tongue as she speaks. "Anything you want," he whispers. "You have but to ask."

She shifts closer; kisses where neck joins shoulder.  He smiles as her hair slithers across her pillow and onto his neck. He wonders about the day he might look above her archaic smile and see the eyes of the creature he married. But until she tires of him, it's always good to come home.

 - the end -

bio: As a graduate in the field of Earth Sciences, Robyn A Hay has always been interested in understanding the dynamics of the world and thus, took the next logical step to create and explore her own realities. Her short fiction has appeared the anthology Wicked Little Girls and the ezine Deep Magic.  She has other work forthcoming in the anthology Fantastical Visions IV and the magazine ShadowSword.