{"id":888,"date":"2018-12-07T11:26:05","date_gmt":"2018-12-07T17:26:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thespectaclstg.wpengine.com\/?p=888"},"modified":"2019-06-10T17:37:53","modified_gmt":"2019-06-10T22:37:53","slug":"inorganic-daughters-by-tessa-yang","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thespectacle.wustl.edu\/?p=888","title":{"rendered":"“Inorganic Daughters” by Tessa Yang"},"content":{"rendered":"

Radish was born of the earth, plucked from the soil by the tufts of her leafy hair. For the first week of her life, she lived in a sunny patch on the kitchen windowsill, pale feet sucking water from an extra dog bowl while the mutt whimpered at her from the floor.<\/span><\/p>\n

Reporters gathered at the farmhouse. \u201cWhy\u2019d you do it?\u201d they asked the farmer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI always wanted a daughter,\u201d she replied. \u201cOnly I couldn\u2019t find a man decent enough to make one with.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s she like?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStrong and smart.\u201d She smirked and smoothed her flyaway bangs with a palm. \u201cJust like her mother.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She led them to the kitchen for the photo shoot. Radish straightened in her water dish. She was six days old, but already she knew how to bask in the flash of the cameras, this invigorating new sunlight that fed a different kind of hunger.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\n

The farmer had a human son named Micah, a beefy, sunburned nine-year-old who yanked Radish\u2019s hair and pinched her rubbery red skin, who threatened to place her on the cutting board and chop her up with potatoes for soup. But if the neighbor children came after Radish, and they did, chucking cutlery at her as she strolled down the farmhouse\u2019s gravel drive, Micah would throw himself at the assailants, kicking and biting. \u201cThat is <\/span>my <\/span><\/i>little sister!\u201d he screamed after their retreating backs, by which he meant: She\u2019s <\/span>mine<\/span><\/i> to bully.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n
\n

Soon there were others. Parsnip, who hopped on the tips of her beige toes. Ginger, who squeezed the knobs of her body. Beet with her wet red grin. They were in awe of Radish, who\u2019d come before them and knew the workings of this strange world with its machines that blinked light, gobbled dishes, and spat water into the waiting fields.<\/span><\/p>\n

With each new birth, the reporters converged on the house in larger numbers. Radish scoffed at how her sisters fluttered their twiggy arms before the cameras<\/span> and contorted their faces into manic toothless smiles. They had no dignity. No ambition. They trailed the farmer around the house and land, a trio of adoring disciples. \u201cMuck out the barn,\u201d she barked, and Radish\u2019s sisters skipped to that musky building where flies rose from manure in dark spirals. \u201cMend that broken fence,\u201d she said, and their lumpy fingers went joyfully to work.<\/span><\/p>\n

Radish refused to help brace the farm for the first frost.<\/span> She was making plans for escape. A TV executive with a silver ponytail sent a car to bring her to the city.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe show is called <\/span>Uprooted<\/span><\/i>,\u201d she explained in his office, which was tucked high and secret as a bird\u2019s nest in the building\u2019s upper reaches. \u201cEvery episode I explore a different part of a city. Shopping malls in Tokyo. Parisian restaurants. Vegas casinos.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The TV executive wore cowboy boots. He clapped when Radish finished her pitch. He loved it. <\/span>Uprooted<\/span><\/i> could have a little bit of everything: comedy, drama, romance, adventure.<\/span><\/p>\n

The problem was he wanted to include Radish\u2019s sisters.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOne of you alone is a freak show,\u201d said the TV executive, leaning back in his chair and propping up his boots on the desk. \u201cBut put four freaks together? Now <\/span>that\u2019s <\/span><\/i>TV.”<\/span><\/p>\n

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\n

Word got out that the farmer had used pesticides in her daughters\u2019 making. A chanting group appeared at the edge of the drive with cardboard signs: KEEP OUR DAUGHTERS ORGANIC and GOD HATES GENETICALLY MODIFIED GIRLS.<\/span><\/p>\n

The TV executive moved on with a new show about conjoined twins. Radish fell into a depression. Her skin paled from red to rose to gray. Her hair drooped and browned. Her sisters encouraged her to join them as they rode the dog around the front porch. The farmer told Radish to stop moping and help gather firewood. Only Micah slouched through the house, bowed under his own dark burden.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom doesn\u2019t want me anymore,\u201d he told Radish. \u201cShe has daughters now. She doesn\u2019t need me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He held out his arms for a hug. His lips were like fat pink slugs. Mucus dribbled from his nose and dripped off the end of his chin. He was the ugliest thing she\u2019d ever seen.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\n

Radish found herself in the farmer\u2019s vegetable patch. She hadn\u2019t visited the place since she\u2019d been born in early summer. Now a chilly breeze whispered through the stems in their raised beds. Radish longed for the city, the warmth pouring from buildings and bodies; then she remembered how that damp heat had called to mind the steaming fug of a human mouth.<\/span><\/p>\n

She climbed into the nearest bed. She listened, willing a communion with these inert cousins, straining to hear the susurrations of their breath. She didn\u2019t know how the farmer nudged dumb shrubs into sentience, but it struck her now as a harsh thing, like kicking a snoozing dog awake. A half moon appeared over the farmhouse\u2019s roof. The back door creaked open: Micah, pajama pants tucked into rain boots, a shovel clenched in his fists. He was all shadow as he loomed over the quivering plants. Radish, unseen, was camouflaged inside the leaves, but she could imagine the crazed mask spreading across his face as he raised the blade.<\/span><\/p>\n

The breeze blew. The smell of the dirt made Radish feel safe but alone, like she was the only living thing on earth. Micah lowered the shovel slowly. With a muted sob, he threw it aside and fled.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\n

She was still in the vegetable patch when the farmer emerged at dawn to start the day\u2019s chores, Parsnip, Ginger, and Beet bumping along behind her as if drawn on a string.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAbout time you got to work,\u201d said the farmer as Radish struggled from the bed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is there to do?\u201d asked Radish wearily. Around her, her sisters fanned out across the yard, hobbling with a stiffness she could feel tightening inside her own limbs. For the first time, she understood how hard the winter would be on all of them.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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Tessa Yang teaches creative writing at Earlham College. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in <\/span>Cream City Review<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>The Carolina Quarterly<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>PRISM International<\/span><\/i>, and elsewhere. Find her online at <\/span>www.tessayang.com<\/span><\/a>, or on Twitter @ThePtessadactyl.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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