Animals: “The early worm, after many years, finally gets the bird” by Elena Zhang

The early worm, after many years, finally gets the bird

Mother Worm wriggled through the earth, soil entering her mouth and exiting her rear, dirt transformed and made fertile from her insides. She had been out all night searching for Little Worm, who disappeared a week ago into the darkness of the city. Little Worm, who left without a glance back and made Mother Worm question if she was ever needed at all. Sleep deprived, Mother Worm forgot to look twice before crossing the street and was torn in two by screeching tires, pink flesh flattened, segmented, a different kind of birth. Did Little Worm come from her womb, or was she also ripped apart from her body? Was Mother Worm’s grief now cut in half? Or was it doubled? Mother Worm was so tired. She returned home to rest before the sun began to rise when she smelled the fizzy petrichor of fresh rain above her, like coffee percolating in the rosy fingers of dawn. Mother Worm made her way to the surface. She was bleary eyed but filled with the buoyancy of tender hope, raw and aching, a sprout clawing its way out of eggshell. For a moment, she thought she glimpsed a pair of small eyes glittering in dew drops. But then a shadow crossed overhead as a bluebird descended from the heavens. How lovely to be able to fly, Mother Worm thought, to be able to see the world so small, so finite, and as she gazed into the welcoming chasm of an open beak, Mother Worm wondered for the first time what her name used to be. 

About Elena Zhang

Elena Zhang is a writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, JAKE, Bending Genres, Gone Lawn, and Your Impossible Voice, among others, and has been nominated for Best Microfiction 2024. Find her on Twitter @ezhang77