Introducing The Flat Woman
Today, we’re excited to share an exclusive excerpt from The Flat Woman: A Novel by Vanessa Saunders. This thought-provoking novel, out today, takes readers on a darkly comedic journey through a world where women are blamed for the climate crisis. A young woman, forced to navigate ecological disaster and societal upheaval, embarks on a quest for meaning and connection. This excerpt offers a glimpse into the unique and unsettling world of The Flat Woman.
On the morning of her ninth birthday, the girl woke up with a rash of bird feathers.
A plate of gray-and-white seagull feathers, thick as a coat of armor, covered her back, from her neck to the base of her spine. It was painful to sit up, painful to lie down, painful to stand on her legs, the feather shafts poking out of her skin.
I’m sorry, Momma said as she left for work, your aunt will be here soon to watch you. By ten a.m., the girl developed a fever so high sweat soaked through her downy coat. Dripping, she tried to walk to the bathroom and saw floating green crescent moons rise from the hallway floor.
Her aunt found her in bed, wet and hot and feathered. Come on, her aunt said, you’ll feel better if we go to the zoo.
Feathers mashed in a ball under her sweater, the girl walked with her aunt, hand in hand, staring at the gulls circling the air. Her aunt bought her a hot dog with relish, then they stared at some sea lions lying on a rock. From their glass cage, the sea lions barked and wagged their tails. The girl tried to eat, but her warm tongue just pushed the food around her mouth, unhungry.
Suddenly a flock of gulls descended on them, a blaze of white feathers, dark claws, and throaty squawks. When the gulls tore the hot dog from the girl’s hand, her aunt let go of the girl, shrieked. Falling to the ground, her aunt pushed the girl out in front of her. The girl tripped on her shoelace and fell face-first.
The sound of the gulls’ wings flapping filled her ears as they followed her down, cutting her knuckle flesh, drawing blood. The girl believed she was going to die, based on the red liquid seeping into the pavement, her aunt’s screaming, and the talons scraping the back of her neck. Eventually the sound stopped.
They raised their heads, tentatively. A clear sky.
Her aunt slowly stood up, bleeding from her hands. Her aunt tried to wipe a blood trickle off her arm, but only smeared the rust-colored fluid down her bangled wrist. She gathered her purse. They were trying to get their revenge, she said, for what we’ve allowed to happen.
They both ran to the car, not wishing to see any more creatures.
PART 1
THE GIRL AND HER MOMMA SIT IN FRONT OF THE TELEVISION, WHICH PLAYS THE MORNING NEWS.
Are you sure you don’t want to try it? Momma asks.
I don’t.
Even movie stars need it you know, her momma says, twisting a strand of hair behind the girl’s head, yanking the girl’s neck just a little.
The bad guys or the good guys?
Both.
If I had a dad, I wouldn’t need it.
Momma doesn’t say anything.
If I had a dad, I could sit on his lap and spill out all my feelings. Then I would cry like a baby. If I had a dad, I wouldn’t have any issues.
Stop moving, Momma says, I’m almost done. The elastic snaps against the girl’s hair as Momma secures the hair tie around one braid.
Therapy would toughen your boundaries, Momma says quietly.
The girl doesn’t reply. Her attention is already out the window, watching the sea slip in a blue line. The seagulls shrieking in the air above their neighbor’s duplex don’t seem bothered.
She watches the sun careen across their white feathers. Remembering the scrape of their beaks at the zoo, she curls her fingers into her palms. She looks down at her small, white hands, but nothing changes.
Can I have some hot chocolate?
Turning, Momma steps out of the living room. In the kitchen, the girl hears the fridge creak, milk hitting the saucepan, the click of the stove. After a few minutes, Momma returns to the couch with a mug of steaming hot chocolate, the whipped cream spritzed into a twirl. Voila, Momma says and hands the girl the mug. The girl grabs the cup, not moving her eyes from the morning news.
A terrorist attack occurred this morning in the city of Pinecoast . . .
Onstage, the politician delivers a speech. Behind a podium, in a navy suit, he waves his hands in the air. A large crowd surrounds the stage, silent. As he fumbles his words, he dabs the perspiration from his protruding forehead with a handkerchief. The politician crumples the handkerchief and shoves it into his pocket.
Then a falling white streak drops into view. A seagull descending from the sky. The crowd gasps as the bird drops onto the politician’s head. In a flash of charcoal-and-white feathers, the gull bounces off his forehead and rolls down his shoulder. The bird spills down his right arm, leaving a trail of cream feathers on the politician’s blue suit, before landing on the stage.
The politician stops talking and dusts the bird feathers from his lapel. On the stage, the seagull lies at his feet. Wings splayed, its neck contorted. The camera zooms closer on the gull’s eyes, glassy and black. The bird doesn’t beat its wings.
Frowning, the politician looks at the bird at his feet, one pink claw suspended upward. When he looks up, he leans closer to the microphone:
We won’t let the terrorists get away with this.
The politician smiles and thrusts his fist into the air. The crowd roars as the politician punts the dead bird into the audience. Someone catches the bird with one hand and the surrounding crowd ripples. Smiling, the politician straightens his tie as the crowd erupts.
The girl exclaims, Ow. You’re pulling too tight.
Momma drops the girl’s braids and turns off the TV. Sorry. You’re done. Go grab your book bag.
Momma is rinsing her face in the bathroom. Momma is gathering her purse on her strong shoulders that are pretty like angel wings. Both of their breaths generate white puffs in the morning air as Momma walks the girl to the bus stop: Don’t forget what I taught you. If you start to feel anxious, inhale through your nose and count to four. Close your eyes if you need to.
The girl nods.
Momma waits until the bus creates a sighing noise, the creaking of its halted wheels. Riding the bus to the school of water-stained walls and a library that smells of must. The girl enters her classroom, where the boys and girls rustle with papers on their desks, scuffing their plastic sneakers against the floor, clearing their sniffling throats as Mr. Teacher takes his position behind the podium. The class begins their morning chant.
I believe the government
Is sparkling and true
Then Mr. Teacher lifts his palm up and the chanting stops. A hung silence. He says, Would you like to contribute to class today? looking down at the girl whose lips remain locked, frozen. She begins to count in her head—one, two, three—while inhaling through her nose. Breathing, she focuses on the red petunias on the windowsill, petals flickering red in the breeze.
Sorry, I was just taking a break, the girl says to Mr. Teacher. Mr. Teacher nods and motions for the class to begin; she breathes and then joins them. Burying her mind in the red petals of the petunias on the sill. Next to the flowers lies the classroom snake. The girl stares at its glistening scales of green, white, and black as the python sleeps beneath a heated lamp. Hearing the snake hiss-breathe inside four walls of glass.
All day the girl hears the python hiss into her eardrums as the red petals of the petunias whisper in her ears. Ignoring the sounds. Ignoring Mr. Teacher standing over her desk all day, squinting down at her work while she tries to solve basic sums.
The day collapses into a sum of images: black pavement, white paper, yellow bus. Before bed, Momma brushes the girl’s wet tangles out with a red comb. Before falling asleep, the girl wonders if Momma is right. If she should agree to therapy so she could strengthen her leaky boundaries.
“Richly textured and chillingly poetic, The Flat Woman is filled with pure enthrallment. A mother, a child-like woman, an Elvis impersonator, and an aunt—all caught in an intricate web of seagull terrorism, spattered with ash and feathers—plunges the reader into an intricate and inscrutable collision of forces.”
—Vi Khi Nao, author of Swimming with Dead Stars
Get your copy today!
About the author
Vanessa Saunders is a professor of practice at Loyola University New Orleans. Her hybrid work, fiction, and poetry has appeared in Seneca Review, Los Angeles Review, Sycamore Review, Passages North, and [PANK] among others. Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, she received her MFA from Louisiana State University.