The monster was born hungry, but her twin Greta, the pearl formed in her mother’s womb, was born singing. The mother was already dead from exhaustion and blood loss, or the shock of seeing the misshapen form of her firstborn and her gaping, ravenous mouth when her second daughter slipped into the midwife’s hands, crooning of a warm and watery place in a language unknown to all but one.
The widowed father was bitter over the loss of his wife and the need to care for his strange children. Greta was quick, speaking whole sentences in English before her first birthday, though she mostly spoke in the special language she sang to her sister. The monster, the only name the father had ever given his first-born, did not speak at all and was only interested, as far as he could tell, in feeding her never-ending hunger. Her appetite was so huge, her growth so rapid, her anger so fierce, that he was afraid of her, and finally decided for Greta’s safety and his own, to confine her to a pit. After that, he saw her only when her angry clamoring roused him to lower another meal into the pit.
On the twins’ seventh birthday he gave Greta the sole responsibility of feeding her sister. He warned Greta to never help the monster escape and allow her to unleash her hunger on the world. He also warned her that she must never lower herself into the monster’s pit, then telling himself they were better off in each other’s care, he washed his hands of his troublesome daughters.
When famine came to the city a few years later he left, mumbling some vague promises about returning with food, though Greta knew she would never see him again. Abandoned and unable to feed her sister, Greta could do nothing but sing to her sister as she roared her hunger, shaking the ground with her ferocity. Singing day and night as her own hunger grew, Greta came to understand that to be alive was to be hungry. When her voice finally gave out, the only two things left in the world were hunger and Greta’s love for her sister. Then she thought of a way to sate her sister’s hunger one last time and threw herself into the abyss.
She did not die from the fall as she’d intended, though she was badly hurt. She only hoped that her injuries would kill her before her sister did. Greta heard her approach but was unable to turn her head to look. She felt herself being lifted, then cradled. There was no pain, only the tears falling onto her broken body from her previously mute sister, who sang back to her the mysterious song of the world they’d once so intimately shared.
In another country, the father heard a familiar song, though he did not recognize the singer’s voice. He stopped, stunned by a glimpse of unimagined possibilities, then moved on, uneasy in his journey.
About the author:
Ellen Romano resumed writing poetry after thirty years when the COVID pandemic, retirement, and the sudden death of her husband left her with a need to express herself in a new way. She lives in Hayward, California and enjoys frequent visits with her children and grandchildren. She is the winner of Third Wednesday’s 2023 Poetry Prize and several awards from the Ina Coolbrith Circle. Her work has appeared in, Lascaux Review, Naugatuck River Review, Does It Have Pockets, and other publications.
Part of our Winter 2025 Issue. New stories, poems, and essays now through February 2025.
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