Returning Home
Mollie Bowman
Lydia Johnson was not quite sure how she ended up at the one hundred and sixty-fourth annual Woodcrest Farmer’s Market, but she knew that she was ready to leave. She was standing at the entrance, directly under a yellow banner with cartoon flowers and red text that read, “Woodcrest Farmer’s Market: Welcome Back Home!” In front of her, two rows of stands, tents, and tables were facing each other, stretching out for miles along a wide dirt path. Both rows seemed to be drawn to each other, like they were trying to overcome whatever force was keeping them apart. As her eyes looked farther out, the rows slowly shrunk down, getting closer and closer until they were finally able to conquer the distance between them, spilling into each other on the horizon. The sun was beating down, causing her to sweat for the first time in years. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck and she slowly peeled her damp, too-tight shirt from her skin. The seams dug into her armpits, the collar constrained her neck, and the hem exposed too much of her stomach for her liking. She figured that she would just have to deal with it. Lydia looked out at the path swarming with people who had emerged from a dirt cloud. She was almost able to recognize each and every one of them, or perhaps she had seen them before in a dream. Their faces blurred and smeared into one another, melting in the blistering heat, like ice cream dripping down a cone into a small child’s sticky hand. They didn’t seem to be concerned with the fact that their faces were slowly dripping down their necks; they each just went about their day, moving through the Farmers’ Market. Not one of them stopped to say anything to her, but they each saw her; their eyes were clear, their eyes were there, and they were looking at her. Did they know her? Why wouldn’t they speak to her? Maybe they could help her figure out how she got here so she could find her way back home. Home –– where was home? She couldn’t seem to remember. How did she even get here? Was there a car? That’s right, she drove here, didn’t she? But where did she park? She turned around to see if there was a parking lot behind her, kicking up a cloud of dirt at her feet, and held in a gasp as she discovered that the never-ending rows only continued further out towards the horizon behind her. Wasn’t she at the entrance though? She tilted her head up towards the sky, momentarily blinded by the glaring sun. She squinted her eyes, hoping to find the welcome banner hanging above her, but it was gone. As she was staring up, one of the melted-faced men stumbled into her. She jolted her head back down and stared into his frozen eyes. She shivered. His eyelids had melted off, exposing his eyeballs in their entirety; the white was too white, his irises too blue, his pupils too dark. “Excuse me,” she said, pulling down on her shirt. Her sweat oozed out of the fabric, slipping between her fingers. “Do you know where the parking lot is? I think I’m lost.” He said nothing and stood still, staring at her. His face was dripping further and further down his neck, but his eyes wouldn’t move. Lydia let out a breathy laugh and felt her shirt sticking to her, getting tighter and tighter. She kept pulling at it, but it wouldn’t give. “Oh, I’m sorry to bother you, I just… I’m sorry,” she said, forcing a smile. As she started to walk away from him, he stood as still as a statue, but his icy eyes strained themselves to ensure that they followed her every step. Oh God, she knew those eyes, but from where? Step after step, they followed her, like there was a string connecting his pupils to her own. He couldn’t look away, but neither could she. Once she had completely walked out of his eyesight, he began to move again. She let out a shaky breath and turned her head back towards the path in front of her. With sweat dripping down her forehead, Lydia walked further down the dirt path, passing by more stands, tents, tables, and melted faces. “Hey, girl! I got whatcha need!” a voice called out. Lydia looked around, unsure if that voice was speaking to her. “Yeah, you! You there!” Her eyes landed on a man whose face had not started melting yet. He was sitting to her left, behind a folding table covered in stacks of vintage suitcases, frantically waving her over to his stand. With a sigh of relief she began to walk over to him, dodging the bustling melted-faced people who all stared at her, yet made no effort to move out of her way. As she got clos25
