Pula
By: Jaime Ertel, September 2000

     She sits on a park bench, damp with dew. Nearby, two boys struggle to kick a faded orange basketball back and forth across the wet grass. After an extended moment of defeat, the boys become bored and focus on Pula. Their whispering and pointing is hardly discreet.
     Noting their obvious curiosity, Pula laughs aloud. Her toes are wet with dew. Small stubs of blonde hair reflect off her bare legs in the bright morning sun. She stretches, yawns, stands.
     "Morning boys."

     Pula blinks. Seemingly miles from any civilization, she observes the surrounding landscape. The world here is so flat, with so few trees, it's almost two-dimensional. The dirt is soft like sand, the air is thin and cool; the sky displays a web of magnificent reds, purples and blues.
     Not a single sound is present.
     Pula screams. Not a quick, startled scream, but a long, time-bending wail. Unable to hear her own scream, she clutches her head in her tiny fists and sinks to the ground.

     "Will that be all?"
     "Yes, thank you."
     Pula gulps the last of her coffee and stuffs a dollar under the chipped white saucer, lined with tiny green flowers. Her head is spinning. She hasn't slept in over two full days. On her way out of the diner, she catches site of a stray kitten on the sidewalk. Bending down to pet it, Pula loses her balance and tumbles onto her knees.
     "Whoa! You alright hun?"
     Pula stares blankly at the stranger. His shirt and slacks are two different shades of non-matching green. She nods quickly and hurries away.
     Several blocks later, she can still feel his beady eyes boring into her head.

     Underwater. She is spinning at such a speed where images dissolve into shards of crumbled thoughts. Violent claws grab at her body while vacant eyes back her against the sea floor. Up, through the water, she can see a child, staring down. The child is a reflection of herself. Only she is certain that the child is not real.

     "Wait!"
     The bus does not stop.
     Pula sits on the curb. An older gentleman who has witnessed her misfortune meanders over to where she sits. He smiles gently… hands her a hard covered book. A Bible.
     "Thank you."
     Pula studies the etchings in the soft leather cover: the image of a man; a small cross; five doves. The book is smooth and black.
     On her way home, Pula places the Bible into the hands of a sleeping man on the sidewalk.

     "You know, this train hasn't moved in over one hundred years."
     Pula looks up at the woman. "Mmm?"
     "It's OK. You're not alone. There are others here."
     Pula leans out of her seat and looks up and down the train car. Nobody. Looking back to where the woman once stood, she is filled with unbelievable happiness. She looks out the window. The train is still not moving. She doubts if it's even on a set of tracks.