A Winding Path by Beth Sherman
I came in search of the Brontes: Emily, with her Gothic obsessions. Oft forgotten Anne. Charlotte, who outlived both of them. Purple drifts of heather sweeping across the moors in late summer. Solitary walks. Wind whistling a ghostly air. The Parsonage, clad in mouse brown brick. Gravestones in the cemetery, untouched since 1860. The Black Bull, frequented by Branwell, the girls’ ne’er do well brother. Fog. Gales. Nature untamed. I was supposed to take notes for my dissertation, a year overdue. But each word came out stilted, drowned in academic jargon. On a hike to Top Withens, I twisted my ankle in the rutted ground, with nary a helpful tourist in sight. I thought of the sisters, clad in sturdier boots, pastel gowns, bonnets, shawls to keep the wind at bay, how they walked to the village and back, lying on a similar patch of dirt, studying feather-tipped clouds. I wanted to use a quill pen too, wanted to immerse myself in heather, the spiky softness of it, the violet whirl, its mossy, clean scent. I wanted Heathcliff to appear out of the mist, rakish, tormented, drinking me in with his next pint of ale. I was done with men I met on the apps, with relatives asking when I’d get a real job, with teaching Victorian Literature to students trolling Tik Tok in class.
I wanted to be the fourth Bronte sister, though I already had two sisters of my own.
It started to rain. A light mist. Heavier drops. Then nothing. A hawk drifted overhead, barely moving its wings. A distant church bell struck the hour. And all the while my mind kept chattering about my notes, Chapter Two, my advisor’s disappointed frown, my dissertation title – which was so longwinded I forgot the name when people asked – my unrelenting procrastination, how my funding was running out, how there were no college jobs left anyway. No space for anything but worrisome thoughts. I closed my eyes and when I opened them the sun had slipped lower in the sky. A purple haze wreathed the mountaintops. I pulled off a sprig of heather, stuck it behind my ear. The soil was loamy. My ankle felt better. Could I put this in my diss? The tie-dyed sky? The hike? Falling asleep and dreaming of Catherine, galloping across the moors to Wuthering Heights?
I came in search of the Brontes.
I found a winding path. A feather. A pebble that had been there for hundreds of years. Heather blossoms basking in the Yorkshire sun. An idea for a novel.
The memory of lilac.
Author's Note:
My self-care routine can be summed up in one word: tennis. I play twice a week – in a lesson and in a group. I started when I was eight but the counselors at my summer camp taught me incorrectly and I’ve needed to relearn the right form and footwork. I find I need to concentrate in order to play my best, devoting my attention to my forehand, backhand, overhead, serve, and volley. I’m totally in the moment and all my worries disappear, if only for an hour. Tennis is great exercise and I’ve met so many nice people. A win-win!
To recharge, I turn to bird watching. I’m an avid birder and carry my binoculars everywhere, using the Merlin app to identify the feathered friends I encounter. There is something deeply grounding about observing their resilience and joy in the natural world. Whether I’m watching a nest being built or just listening to them sing, it helps me find stillness. I also find comfort in the steady rhythm of writing and reading, especially flash fiction, which allows me to explore big emotions in small, manageable spaces. Nature and words are my sanctuary.
Beth Sherman is the author of the novella-in-flash, HOW TO GET THERE FROM HERE (Ad Hoc Fiction). She has had more than 250 stories published in literary journals, including Ghost Parachute, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly, where she’s a Submissions Editor. Her work appears in Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions anthologies.
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