Nineteen years ago, when we moved to Nova Scotia, I never imagined burning bans would ever be necessary here. With all the rain we used to get, it seemed impossible for the forests to ever dry out. But this year, we’ve had four straight weeks of sunshine with no rain. The province has now banned access to the woods and set a $25,000 fine for anyone caught going in. It reminded me of the time my brother invited two of his friends from Quebec to Margarita Island in Venezuela. They were amazed because it never rained, there were no clouds, and the sun was always shining.
Despite always telling the world how much I love being at the beach, I remember, as a little girl, not liking how dry my skin felt or the stickiness of the salt. All of it, combined with sunburn, used to make my life miserable. It doesn’t happen anymore. I love the beach, the salt, and always avoid the sun.
This story was inspired by the drought, the dryness, and the beach.
She woke with her eyes feeling like sandpaper. Instinctively, she went to rub them—but the moment her fingers touched her eyelids, a stabbing pain shot through her skull, sharp as glass shards.
Yes, she’d had a few drinks last night. But this wasn’t a hangover. This was something else.
Ed lay beside her, motionless, his breathing deep and even. She remembered how strange it had felt to kiss him—his lips dry, almost brittle. Yet now he looked serene, almost luminous, as if the night had done him good.
She shuffled to the bathroom, her joints stiff, her skin tight against her bones. One glance in the mirror made her stop cold. The reflection staring back wasn’t her. The face was gaunt, drained of color. Her eyes looked older, sadder, rimmed with fatigue. She hadn’t drunk that much—had she?
Her skin itched. Not the kind of itch cream could fix, but a deep, crawling discomfort, as though her body was rejecting itself. She turned on the faucet, gulping water until her stomach ached. Still, the thirst only deepened.
She grabbed a bottle of moisturizer and squeezed it over her arms, chest, legs—slathering it on in frantic strokes. The cream refused to sink in. Instead, her skin felt rougher, breaking apart in tiny, uneven sections. No blood. No tenderness. Just… texture. Like something hard was forming beneath.
She stared. Scales.
Her breathing quickened. She remembered always hating how hairy she was—how she avoided shaving until absolutely necessary. Now there was no hair at all. Her limbs looked thinner, her neck longer.
She ran to the bed and shook Ed. Nothing. She shook harder, hitting him with open palms. He barely stirred, his lips curling into a lazy smile.
“What are you doing, my sweet little reptile?” he murmured. “Let me sleep… You kept me up all night.”
She froze. Reptile? He’d used odd nicknames before, but this one… this one sank into her gut.
The sun’s light spilled across the curtains, warm and beckoning. Her instincts screamed at her to go outside. She stepped onto the porch and crossed to a sun-warmed rock near the beach, sitting as the heat seeped into her body. It felt right. Soothing. Necessary.
The salt air eased her panic, but the questions swirled. Why had he called her that? Why did the sun feel like it was feeding her?
She didn’t hear him approach until his arms wrapped around her from behind.
“There you are, my beautiful girl,” he said softly. “I know you love the sun, but this is snake season. And we both know how much they like you.”
His voice was tender, but his words left a chill in her stomach.
Her unease was just beginning to fade when Marla burst through the door Hihoneying Ed.
“What is she doing here again?”
Something inside her snapped. She lunged—fast, instinctive, precise. Cutting Marla on her leg with her nails.
“I hate this iguana!” Marla shrieked. “Keep her away from me!”
“Don’t be so hard on her,” said Ed, “She thinks she’s my girlfriend too.”
Welcome to my suitcase of memories and creativity. I’m Arnaly, a citizen of many places, and I want to share my experiences growing up in Venezuela, as well as my fun experiments in creative writing.
I became a writer the day I realized there was no more space for thoughts in my head, and I needed to set them free. I write both fiction and non-fiction: in "La Maleta de Arnaly," I share my personal stories, and in the section "Life Wayfaring," I write hybrid stories, allowing my imagination to roam free and blend with reality. I am a fan of Magic Realism and love to use it in my stories. In the section “The Un-Poet”, I express my feelings in the shape of, hopefully, poetry. In my newest section, “The Typewriter,” I am journaling my experience as an aspiring writer.
Thank you for reading, and I hope you can join me on my journey as I traverse the world and take you with me through my stories.
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Inspired! Clinging to each word trying to understand until the last line.
Well, no one can accuse your mind of drying up, my friend. How you can take our Nova Scotia drought and craft it into this, well... pretty amazing. I'm putting on extra moisturizer today!!!