There once was a river inside her so she swam. She swam and swam and floated by a tender rock where boys counted hobos on freight trains, by a family pitching horseshoes at a cornroast, drifting, drifting by a woman sealing a jar of jam with wax. She drifted farther still to a box of checkers under a Christmas tree until she could drift no more, so she paddled.

She paddled and paddled and kicked beyond a blue island where she remembered the day a pilot and her plane disappeared and a hero’s baby was kidnapped until she could kick no more, so she thrashed.

She thrashed and thrashed and bobbed for air in a rapid current where she grabbed onto tree branches and shiny possessions with plugs whose long electrical cords reeled her in to the riverbank until she could bob no more, so she lay there.

She lay there and lay there and basked in a sun so strong it evaporated the river inside her, until she could bask no more, so she prayed.

She prayed and prayed and reflected on her last breath of life before they wheeled in a machine with three images to resuscitate her.

When they pulled the lever, a lemon, a banana, and a cherry appeared, but she did not open her eyes. When they pulled the lever again, two lemons and a cherry appeared, but she did not open her eyes.

When they pulled the lever once more, three lemons appeared and she awoke, inhaling and exhaling long enough to touch the tender rock protruding from her bosom then to roll over, leaving a puddle left from the river inside her until it too evaporated down to a drop too small for even the wind to swallow.

This story appeared in Sudden Stories and was later published in altered form in Death by Renaissance.