Reflections

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

CONTENT GUIDE

STILL STANDING, NOT STANDING STILL

SURFACE TENSION

THE FORGOTTEN ONES

WHERE YOU GO

EULOGY

THE BOBBIN MAN

BIRD BROTHER

CRACK YOUR BONES

BETWEEN THE LINES

HER

WHAT WE WISH FOR IN THE WAVES

LEARNING TO LET GO (A SONG FOR THE BRAVE)

AN OCEAN OF STARS

ALWAYS, THE SONG OF THE SEA

THE DEVIL’S FOOTPRINTS

LITTLE TEETH

SLEEPWALKER

YOUTH

REVENANTS

UNDECIDED

OF TIME AND TIDE

IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOON

WILD HORSES (IRENE’S SONG)

FROM THE DEEP

SEAMS

LET MY SOUL GO WHERE THE OCEAN ROARS: AN ESSAY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

INTRODUCTION

THIS YEAR HAS BEEN A TEST OF STRENGTH. Some things that I experienced in 2022 sent me into such a mental tailspin that I lost all sense of what was true and real. It made me lash out and retreat in equal measure. And it also opened a door for me.

I will not talk about the incident that occurred because, while it has changed my life, it hasn’t changed who I am. I think that’s healthy, to acknowledge that something affected you deeply, but also proved to you how powerful you can be. Even the tiniest seeds need time to grow; the mightiest Kauri tree starts out smaller than my fist.

A late friend once told me that, when you are seen as a strong person, people look to you to be there for them, even if they are not there for you. I used to agree with her. What I also realise now is being truly strong sometimes means telling people you need them to be there for you. I believe everything we do leaves an echo, a ripple in the fabric of life. I tell my kids that you can’t control what happens to you, but you can always control how you react.

I’m not the same person—or writer—I used to be, that much is clear. In fact, some days, I feel like I haven’t been that person for a long while. Others, I still feel like cookie-dough, not completely cooked. The recipe changes over time, ingredients swapped out as tastes evolve, concessions made as I choose one flavour over another. But I don’t even mind if I stay like cookie-dough forever. Sometimes we try so hard to be who we think we should be, we lose sight of who we really are.

Another friend said to me, about one of my stories which was (at least partly) about my late friend, that even though it might be about her, it was much more about me. It was my thoughts and feelings and experiences. The problem was that she wasn’t around to read them with me anymore, and that was the difficult bit. Not that I’d written them, and maybe even got bits wrong, but that I couldn’t share them with her. And I thought, To hell with that. Yes, I can ... I went to the edge of the ocean one late afternoon, sat on the rocks, and read the story aloud (quiet though, so only the wind might hear). The water rushed up and drenched me unexpectedly. Make of that what you will.

Whenever I need to quieten my mind, or just get a sense of myself again, I go to the ocean. The ocean doesn’t care who you are or what you do; it can be beautiful and calm, or mighty and terrifying. It does as it wants, and it needs no validation. I understand that. Just like the feeling I get when I get when I climb up somewhere really high; watching the water puts everything in perspective. It connects me back to where I am in the world, and the space I take up that is uniquely mine.

Writing always helps me map my path forward. I write for wellness. For good mental health. I write to make sense of the world around me, especially when it seems like it’s making no sense at all. In this way, I find peace in understanding that I am always changing and adapting, in a state of constant flux and growth.

In the introduction for SEEDS I said: "Most of my stories begin as curious little Frankenstein’s monsters of lines and ideas I’ve cut and pasted together, sometimes stealing parts from previous works, rearranging them into a brand-new creation.

Well, it’s not exactly stealing when the words are all your own."

Like SEEDS, Reflections is a (smaller) Frankenstein’s monster collection of unsettling speculative fiction and weird horror, with the addition of some narrative poetry. Some pieces have been previously published elsewhere; some are brand new and unseen.

These stories and poems are echoes and mirrors. They are dreams of the future and memories of the past. They are waves of movement that ebb and flow, rising and falling in turn. Some of them share threads and themes with others. I’d like to say this is always intentional, but the truth is, I often don’t even realise they are connected until a long time after they’re done. They are, however, proof that beautiful things can come from ugly situations. That sometimes—if I may borrow some words from my Past Self, first written in one of the included works—"there are times when the world seems so dark you feel smothered, as if buried, thrust deep within the Earth. But like a seed, nurtured by the tender hands of sun and rain, you’ll grow again. You will rise."

What links them all is that they are indeed reflections of me, in every sense of the word.

~ Tabatha Wood, Aotearoa New Zealand, 2022

CONTENT GUIDE

The icons used throughout this book are meant as a reading guide, and in some cases, as content warnings.

STILL STANDING, NOT STANDING STILL

There are some people in the story

of my life for who

I exist only as an echo.

A shadow version of my former self.

They know me as I was,

not who I have become.

They saw me when I stumbled,

not straight-backed as I rose;

as I burst from the bud that

kept me encased, pulled my roots

from the earth and washed away.

They remember my failures,

my darkest hours.

I am weighed and measured by

my tears.

I am coming home now

with my own blood in my mouth,

bruised from the falls I’ve survived.

As the ocean roars for a sacrifice,

and I shed my new skin to the wind.

The world is vast, and I am small,

and yet — right now — here I am.

In this moment, connected

to woven threads; of time passed,

and lives still to be.

I have always been here,

one way or another,

in the echoes of my endless dreams.

What is offered is mine, and mine only,

for I am a child of the sea.

SURFACE TENSION

"I think I speak for everyone when I say we honestly never intended to throw Annabelle off the boat, and we certainly didn’t mean for her to drown. It was just a prank, really. Not a very funny one, I’ll admit, especially when that… that thing… got a hold of her and dragged her underwater, but honestly, it was only supposed to be a joke…"

Annabelle sucked her teeth and hit the pause button on the video camera. Hamish, what the fuck was that?

What?

That. You sounded like that goofy sci-fi guy. What’s-his-name? Did the paranormal stuff.

Hamish scowled and shuffled in his seat. "I was just trying to add some drama. Give it a bit of panache. He pouted and added petulantly. I was in character. Obviously!"

Annabelle shot him a look that could have stripped paint from the walls. Yeah, okay. Just use your own damn accent, Hamish. Don’t dick around. She held up a hand to silence his protests as Laura set a steaming coffee mug on the desk.

Annabelle’s right, Hamish, Laura said, her voice like golden syrup. You wanted to finish recording the intro this afternoon, and it’s already getting dark. Just tell the story, my love. 

Hamish ripped the tiny microphone from his collar and threw it to the floor. Well, that’s just typical of you two, eh? He jabbed a finger angrily at Annabelle. "You, with your Hollywood experience, and you… he turned to Laura and sneered. You just love to see me fail, huh? Poor, inexperienced Hamish. Well, fuck the pair of yous. And all this!"

He stomped to the hallway, grabbed his battered leather jacket from its peg, and slammed the front door behind him.

Hamish! Laura pleaded, as she followed him, in a burst of purple skirts and auburn hair. Come back! You know it’s not like that!

Annabelle sighed and picked up her phone. She tapped on the screen and began scrolling.

They’re fighting again? a voice called from the kitchen.

Yeah, Kaia, Annabelle answered, not bothering to look up. But, hey, what else is new?

You think we’re ever going to finish this film, or...? Kaia waited awkwardly in the doorway, both hands thrust in their pockets.

Annabelle shrugged, her expression blank. Tell ya the truth, I don’t know. I’m not even sure I care. It’s like… heaps of effort for not a lot of return.

Kaia mumbled their agreement. Yeah. It’s kinda a shame, though. Annabelle shrugged again. Okay well, I think I’m just gonna… You know…? They pulled an electronic cigarette from their hoodie and waved it in explanation.

Yeah, go on. Take a walk and a smoke, whatever. Who knows when they’ll be back.

You want to come with me? Catch the sunset on the beach? Kaia checked their watch. We’ve got about twenty minutes until sundown.

Annabelle shook her head. Nah, I’m good. Seen one sunset, seen ‘em all.

Kaia sniffed and grinned. Yeah, I guess it must feel like that sometimes. What was it, eight years in Santa Monica?

Nine, actually, Annabelle corrected. But now I’m home.

Kaia laughed. "Home being Laura’s rich uncle’s seaside Airbnb. But not for much longer,