Vote now in the 2021 Best of San Antonio Readers Poll.

Friday, May 25, 2012

To See by Emily Hernandez

Posted By on Fri, May 25, 2012 at 10:00 AM

The city is alive and breathes in that hulking slumber of summer. It can pull you in. It can change you but you can change it too; symbiotically we exist. This week Emily Hernandez explores such a relationship in “To See.” But here it is the cancerous and ragged breath of a city already in its death throes that entices Edie (or does she have a choice?). Send in your flash: Send in your comments: Send in your questions: Summer is upon us; read in the shade.

Lyle Rosdahl

To See by Emily Hernandez

Edie liked to wander. She liked that thrilling feeling of the unknown, of that clench in the pit of her stomach when she came upon something unexpected. In an effort to feel a bit more she took to wandering around her small, growing smaller, town. The drug store at the end of Main Street was her first. She had been walking aimlessly, avoiding spending time with people she would rather forget, and ended up in front of a once cheerful building with faded red and blue paint. She glanced around and saw nothing so she crept around to the back and crouched between the dumpster and a shed, knees level with one of those windows that sinks partially into the ground. Holding her breath she jiggled the latch and the window groaned open. She wiped her dirty, sweaty palms on her shorts, sat down and proceeded to scoot through the opening. She coughed on the dusty stale air and took small cautious steps through the room heading for the door leading up to the store. Instead she found a flight of stairs blocked by some boxes. Irrationally worried that someone would show up she quickly shifted the boxes and went upstairs. She ended up, not in a storage room or a cramped office as she expected, but in a small bedroom with a single bed covered in worn blue sheets, a wardrobe, side table, and a thin layer of grit over everything. She didn’t touch anything. She just looked. She imagined what various images lay below the first snapshot of a child swinging in the stack of pictures on the table. She wondered what the desiccated flower in the glass cup had smelled like before it had been its slow descent back to base elements. Gazing at the wardrobe she speculated what would be found inside; dresses, overalls, boots, or sandals? Then, feeling inexplicably empty, she left, descending the stairs quietly and shimmying out the window, leaving behind the remnants of another person’s life without a glance over her shoulder. This became her life. The emptying company town was her escape. She would sneak into an abandoned building for the feeling it gave her. She wasn’t sure if it was the thrill or the emptiness, the reassurance that she was still alive or the clear message that she would die that enticed her, but she continued. Edie liked to wander and with each death and loss in her town she gained, and lost a little piece of herself. --- Lyle Rosdahl, a writer living in San Antonio, edits the flash fiction blog & best of in print for the Current. He created, facilitates and participates in Postcard Fiction Collaborative, a monthly flash fiction response to a photo. You can see more of his work, including photos, paintings and writing, at Send your flash to

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

Support Local Journalism.
Join the San Antonio Current Press Club

Local journalism is information. Information is power. And we believe everyone deserves access to accurate independent coverage of their community and state. Our readers helped us continue this coverage in 2020, and we are so grateful for the support.

Help us keep this coverage going in 2021. Whether it's a one-time acknowledgement of this article or an ongoing membership pledge, your support goes to local-based reporting from our small but mighty team.

Join the San Antonio Press Club for as little as $5 a month.

Read the Digital Print Issue

June 16, 2021

View more issues


Join SA Current Newsletters

Sign Up Now

Subscribe now to get the latest news delivered right to your inbox.


© 2021 San Antonio Current

Website powered by Foundation