WATER-WEIGHT
ALM No.91, July 2026
SHORT STORIES
The sun over Silver Run felt too close. The heat pressed on Emily’s shoulders as she floated in the shallow part, her pink floaties — the ones with the yellow stars — keeping her arms high above the water. The lake smelled like mud and old pennies.
Uncle Donovan sat back in a faded lawn chair on the dock, one hand shading his eyes as he watched her drift.
“You’re doing great, kiddo,” he said.
Emily grinned. The lake felt easy with the floaties on.
She paddled to the ladder and climbed out, water streaming off her bathing suit. A glass of orange juice sat on the deck rail, sweating in the heat. She took a sip. The cold ring it left on her palm made her shiver.
When she turned back, Don had already leaned forward in the lawn chair, elbows on his knees, a baby‑blue folder open across his lap. Photocopied pages fluttered in the breeze — grainy photos, scribbled notes, highlighted lines. He was somewhere else now.
Emily looked at her floaties. The stars were peeling at the edges. She slid them off, the warm‑plastic smell sticking to her arms. Uncle Don will grab me if I sink.
She stepped onto the ladder and let go.
The lake swallowed her. Cold shot through her chest. Her breath disappeared. Water roared in her ears, loud and fast. She kicked hard, but the deep part felt heavy. The lake squeezed her ribs, tightening when she kicked.
Water burned down her throat.
Her chin dipped under. Why aren’t you coming.
A splash jumped against the dock.
Don traced a line of text with his thumb, mouthing the words like they might rearrange themselves into truth.
Then a cold splash dotted the top page. The ink bled in tiny blue veins.
Another drop hit his shoulder.
Don squinted upward, hand lifting halfway like he might shield his eyes. The sky stayed still. No clouds. No wind.
A thin, choking sound broke the quiet.
His head snapped toward the water.
“Emily!”
He shot out of the chair and ran for the dock. He reached down, grabbed her under the arms, and lifted her out, setting her on the warm boards. She coughed hard, water dripping off her chin.
“You alright?” His voice was tight.
Emily nodded, still shaking.
“You sure?” He leaned closer, eyes scanning her face. A small crease formed between his brows — quick, but real.
She nodded again.
Don glanced at the floaties lying abandoned on the deck. “Why’d you take these off, Em?”
She sniffed. “I thought… I was ready. All by myself.”
His shoulders softened. “Not today, kiddo.” He brushed a wet strand of hair off her forehead. “We’re done for the day. Grab your orange juice and head inside. I’ll be there in a bit.”
Emily picked up her glass and headed toward the cabin, her wet feet tapping softly across the deck.
Don followed her with a small step, like he almost meant to walk her all the way there. His hand hovered near her back for a moment before he let it fall.
She reached the cabin steps.
That’s when Don crossed the boards to where the baby‑blue folder lay. He crouched, lifted it carefully, and paused — his jaw tightening as he looked at the damp, bleeding page.
Emily stepped into the doorway.
Inside the cabin, the air felt wrong. Too cold. Her breath puffed out in a tiny cloud.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The kitchen faucet was leaking again. That made sense. Something she could fix.
She stretched up and twisted the handles until they squeaked. The dripping stopped.
Then the metal moved under her fingers.
It turned the other way, slow and steady. Water blasted out in a wild spray, soaking her face and the counter. She stumbled back.
The ceiling light buzzed, then flashed a deep, lake blue. For one second, the whole cabin looked underwater. The walls shimmered. Then darkness.
The faucet kept roaring. Emily’s breath shook in her chest.
Then—warmth. A soft, steady pressure wrapped around her shoulders, like someone tall had knelt in the dark behind her. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just holding her still while the water ran.
Why am I okay?
Patrick Menzel is a fiction writer based in Pennsylvania. Focusing on character‑driven stories with emotional and speculative edges, he studies writing at Full Sail University and draws inspiration from genre television and modern thriller storytelling. His work explores fractured relationships, identity, and the tension between memory and reality.
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