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Beth Sherman
Bad Metaphor
(excerpt from How to Get There from Here) Your mother is missing. You check the closest beach because she’s always craved salt and sunlight. Nobody’s here, except old men with metal detectors, middle-aged women wearing suits with attached skirts, a few kids too young to be in school and their moms.
The beach is not a metaphor for memory. Footprints erased by the ocean signify someone else walked here, nothing more. You can see the imprint of toes, the curve of insteps.
The tide is not a metaphor for memory either. Waves beat against the shore relentlessly. Advance, retreat. Not thoughts. Wet. A splash of foam.
Clouds are not a metaphor for memory. Wispy, feathery layers. High altitude cotton balls. Water condensing above water. This is science, not poetry.
Your mother taught you what a metaphor was. She likes the good ones, not clichés. Not turn a blind eye, bite the bullet, fish out of water.
A seagull is not a metaphor for flight. The bird on the garbage can eyes a torn potato chip bag. You plop down on the sand, exhausted, breathe into the wind. The seagull rips the bag open with its beak.
Your mother is not a grain of sand.
Beth Sherman has had more than 200 stories published in literary journals, including Ghost Parachute, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media
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