Free The Seary Line by Nicole Lundrigan

stared at the wonky lines of her log cabin quilt. She shared her life as a woman – a curiosity so beyond their world of muscle-work, it transformed even the most banal of her stories into something rich and exotic.
    When she died in childbirth the following spring, a bitter stillness seeped into the home, uprooted every scrap of humour, of joy, and guarded the space with cold passion. At first the quiet was sharp and unbearable, but after a while the five of them grew accustomed to it. Over the years, they developed a system of nods and mumbles, and eventually, if a word was accidentally spoken, it was met with distain. Even the flowers fell silent, and Percy could no longer hearthe buds bursting outside his window during a spring evening. He had imagined early on that they drooped and died because the gardener had abandoned them. Not until he fell in love did he consider that perhaps they were all so desperate for life, they had no choice but to choke each other out.
    Percy’s three older brothers left, first chance that presented itself. Married as soon as they were able to earn a living. But Percy lingered, bound somehow to that dour, soundless man who was his father.
    He was nearly forty years old when he met Delia. Even though he remembered it very clearly, he rarely thought about their first acquaintance. Not because it was upsetting, just the opposite, actually. Bringing it out into bright light and replaying it gave him such pleasure, he only did so on special occasions. He feared wearing it out. Fondness enveloped their second meeting as well, but he was more carefree with this instance, would conjure her words frequently, and after all these years, still feel the scratch of his excited shyness. “You got to be the pastiest man I ever seen,” she had said when they met on the road, day of drizzle. “Surely you’ve been living under a rock.” Throat dry, but skin soaked, Percy nodded yes.
    He remembered, too, the moment when he told his father that he too was getting married, leaving their home. His father had been hunched over his meal of boiled potatoes, boiled fish, shoveling the scalding food into his mouth. Conversation, Percy believed, kept the mouth alive, and it was clear to him as he watched steaming forkfuls enter that pinched oval in his father’s face that the man’s mouth was numbed, ignorant to any sort of pain. But Percy’s was not, and he spoke clearly. He saw his father cringe at the sound of Percy’s voice, but the old man did notlook up, never met his eyes. Nothing but a sullen nod. And that was the end of that.
    Delia waited at the front gate. As Percy walked towards her, he never glanced over his shoulder, never once looked back. And though he honestly wished it were different, through his shirt his spine could tell, there was no set of eyes gazing at him. No one was going to miss him. Even though some part of his father was still rattling around inside it, his childhood home was essentially dead.
    Percy felt warmth spread out inside him, like hot jam filling a cold jar. This did not emerge from the memory of his father, but of Delia, waiting for him, in a navy dress, white piping around the pockets. She had been waving to him as he came around the corner, and in his mind, this was not so much a greeting, but a clearing of the air. Waving away his sadness, making room for hope.
    Percy’s reminiscing was interrupted by squawking, shrieks rising up from the beach. He could tell by the tone there was no danger, these were only the intermingled squeals of delight and irritation. He walked to the head of the cliff to watch his children.
    With thumb and forefinger, Amos was snapping bubbles along a strand of seaweed. Beside him, Stella was attempting to do the same, and she puffed with effort, cheeks smoldering.
    â€œWhy can’t I do it?” she cried, then dropped the seaweed, stomped on it. When her shoes smeared green paste over the rocks, she