Music Camp, 1978
Marybeth Rua-Larsen
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Behind the concert hall, after dusk, the moon oozed through an elm’s branches like an egg yolk, not solid, not liquid, quivering. His arms around my waist, then feathered to my backside as he pulled me in. Let’s dance, he said, to no music at all, steam rising, even this late, off the sidewalk. The end of a ninety-degree day of rehearsals, seat challenges, him waving his baton, never breaking a sweat. You could get your seat back, dear, be first chair with a little more effort. Me fifteen. Him with his long gray hair falling over his half-closed eyes, his hot breath in my ear moaned his intent. His hands stroked my skin, an itch in need of scratching. His grip tightened. This is when I became the crow, the one watching from the elm. First it flew to the dead possum in the road, fled when headlights approached. Then, back on its branch, it gaped at the yolk, cracked and bleeding orange across the night sky.
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Marybeth Rua-Larsen loves to straddle the line between poems, flash fiction and creative nonfiction. Her work has appeared in Magma, Eclectica Magazine, Hot Flash Literary, and Crannóg, among others, and she recently had a piece accepted for Best Microfiction 2026. Her chapbook Nothing In-Between is available from Barefoot Muse Press.
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Posted in Vignettes: A Literary Photo Album : JUL '26 and tagged in #CNF, #boudin, #creative nonfiction, Creative Nonfiction