March 2026

Selkie by Dorcy Jaffray

I never knew what it was like to be hollow. Not really. Not until that day.

I was laying on the shore, picking up handfuls of sand and letting each piece slip through the cracks in my webbed fingers.

Back then, I loved being human. The sensation of my toes sinking into the cold, wet sand. The wind stroking my naked body, wrapping around the indents of my hips. My long, dark hair whispering against my shoulder blades. The curve of my soft belly sliding into the folds on my waist and the hard muscle of my thighs. Dips and inclines and angles. Nothing like the smooth slick of me in the water.

Too lost in the moment, I didn’t even hear his boots scraping against the rocks behind me.

Then he was there. His shadow turning everything dark.

Jumping to my feet, I scrambled away, hating myself for being afraid. He was staring at me and in his right hand hung my seal skin, still shining and wet from the sea.

“I’m Desmond,” he said, placing a huge hand on his chest. He smiled and I knew it was supposed to be warm, but my body ached with dread.

“What do you want?”

He lifted my skin. The sunlight flickered off the basest part of me. The protection I’d worn for thirty years. My biology.

Tilting his head, he let his eyes carve the length of my naked body. For the first time, it felt like a vulnerable, dirty thing.

“We’re going to have a wonderful life together,” he said.

He’d left the beach without checking to see if I was following. He knew I had no choice. He had my skin, so I was his.

At first, I was certain I could make him see. That I just needed him to listen. But I’d beg and weep and scream and all he’d do was laugh. Throw me a sloppy wink before leaning close enough for me to smell every inch of him. The sweat and fish and liquor.

The violent daydreams started a few years in, bloody and blissful. But by the time I was ready, it was too late. My daughter was growing in my belly. He pressed his rough hand into me every night, feeling for her head, her foot, her hand. He never looked at me as he laid claim to her.

The day she came, I cried. Not out of the heady joy I’d heard about, but dread so deep I could barely move. When he took her from my arms, I felt sick.

My daughter is five now. She has dark eyes, like me. And hair so black it seems to absorb the sun. She has beautiful hands, but he makes her wear gloves when she leaves the house to cover the slight webbing between her fingers.

When it’s just the two of us, she takes them off and pinches the extra skin. First on her hands, then on mine. I tell her about my mother, my sisters. My wife, Rosalie.

And if we’re lucky, I can sneak her down to the beach. We let our fingers and toes dance through the wake. Scoop up the water and watch it dribble down our wrists like veins. The pull of the sea always makes me cry, and she always wraps her tiny arms around my waist, pressing her cheek into my hip.

Once, I saw Rosalie. Her speckled gray head appeared from the waves, whiskers shining in the sun, clear black eyes fixed on me. I was walking toward her before I could think, my blue dress floating on the surface around me as I went deeper and deeper. The water coaxed around my naked legs, smooth and unbearably gentle as it traveled up my thighs.

Then my daughter grabbed my hand. It was warm and sandy and urgent as she pulled, dragging me back to the shore.

I burned the dress before he came home, afraid he’d smell the ocean on me.

Today, he’s going into town. Before leaving, he kisses me hard and I stumble back, knocking on the edge of the table until I’m trapped against his body. The sharp edges of his pelvis gouge into my hips. He smells of stale tobacco and sour whiskey. He digs his fingers into my ribs until they ache and smiles against my cracked lips.

When he’s gone, I call my daughter’s name. Her voice floats down and I look up to see a small platform hidden in the roof. Hiking up my dress, I climb the stairs and crawl across the rafters. She’s humming to herself, cradling something in her arms.

Two feet closer and I freeze.

She’s holding my skin.

She stops humming when she sees me weeping, and reaches out. I collapse into her and press the seal skin to my body, wrapping my arms and legs around it. She lets me rest my head in her lap and strokes my hair until we’re both wet with tears.

Outside, I tuck her arms into a jacket and tie her boots. I kiss her head and tell her I love her. I pretend my heart isn’t fracturing when she hugs me and begins walking to the neighbors.

After she’s swallowed by the forest, I turn to the house. He’ll be back soon. I need to be quick.

There are eight jugs of oil in the barn. I empty each one until it’s all I can smell.

The bathroom, with the lock still broken from that first night. The wardrobe, full of clothes with sleeves long enough to cover my hands. The kitchen, with planks nailed over the window to block any view of the sea.

Then, I peel off my dress and boots and throw them inside.

I want to watch until the last piece of wood turns to ash and bathe in the heat of the flames. But he’ll be home any minute. And the ocean is ready for me.

So I light the match.

I race to the water, barefoot, with my skin gripped tightly in both hands.

Rosalie is waiting for me, her speckled head dipping above and below the surface.

I stumble in the sand, clumsy on my human feet, before splashing into the sea.

“Stop.”

The growl is ragged and violent. I’m waist-deep, so close to home, but I turn.

He’s shaking, fury rolling off him like wafts of smoke. His eyes are huge and red. Behind him, the flames are swallowing the house, framing him in hues of amber and orange. He’s holding a pistol in his right hand. The barrel is pointed at my chest.

“You burned my home.”

“Yes,” I say. I don’t bother telling him that he stole mine.

“You belong to me.”

Then his eyes widen and something warm presses against my back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rosalie’s wild brown hair and thick freckles. In her human form, her body is long. Toned where I’m soft. Her dark eyes are fixed on him as she puts a gentle hand on my waist.

“I’ll kill both of you. You know I will.”

And he’s right. He will.

He cocks the gun. Rosalie is moving in front of me. I’m trying to pull her back but she’s stronger. My screams are ringing in my head and he’s narrowing his eyes and leveling the barrel.

Then my daughter is streaking down the beach, her black hair trailing behind her. She calls out and he pauses. The gun is still aimed at us as she sprints past him, crashing through the water and into me.

I wrap my arms around her.

“Get out of the way,” he snaps at her.

She shakes her head, pressing herself tighter against me. Her hands squeeze at my hip and I realize she’s not wearing her gloves. The soft webbing between her fingers brushes my skin.

“Get out.”

We stand, curled together, watching him decide. The water is the only thing that moves, lapping at the shore. His finger is steady on the trigger but his body is crackling with rage. I can feel it.

Then something lifts from my hip. My daughter is reaching out. Rosalie takes her hand, brushing the webbing with one thumb before looking at me with a small smile.

The three of us leave him, shattered on the shore, and go home.