The things Shauna never knows, the things she does
- Jun 27, 2025
- 3 min read
by Cole Beauchamp
Shauna has had one too many evenings with the cobalt blue de Gournay wallpaper, the glowing chandelier, the polite clink of silverware. She leaps up. Let’s go skinny dipping!
And out she charges, into the soft Tennessee night. Voices titter behind her. Good, they’re following. She kicks off her sling backs, sinks her toes into dewy grass as she disrobes. Faux fur stole, purple sequin cocktail dress, thong, Vanity Fair Full Figure Beauty Back Smoothing Bra.
Damn Richard and his ceaseless talk about local government, Marissa’s obsession with Retinol, Lola’s relentless prepping her kids for school interviews. Whatever happened to their twenties, when they backpacked around Southeast Asia, motorcycled across the Highlands of Vietnam, nearly got shot in Cambodia? Whatever happened to Richard looking hot as hell in his bomber jacket, Marissa partying in a tutu, Lola marching for climate justice?
Shauna pauses on the riverbank, the cool breeze hardening her nipples. The water writhes in the moonlight, like a black snake, twisting. Houses twinkle in the far distance on the other side.
They’ll do it if she goes first. They’ll do it if no one catches a glimpse of Caesarean-scarred bellies, sagging skin, cottage cheese thighs.
She raises her arms to dive. “Last one in is a rotten egg!”
The water flows like silk, rippling her skin with pleasure. So much better than with a bathing suit. When had Richard last run his hands over her this way, greeting every curve with affection?
“Geronimo!” screams Marissa. A flash of pale skin in the moonlight, then Shauna is engulfed by splash after splash. Marissa’s banker husband, good on him. Lola, giggling like a schoolgirl. Richard’s censorious expression washed away as laughter erupts, bounces off the distant windows, redoubles.
A game of Marco Polo and she’s it. Water in her eyes, her mouth, over her head as she listens, treading water in the middle of the river. Water slaps on the bank. A loon sounds its mournful call. Lola’s voice, too far away. Heavy breathing closer. The shock as a pair of arms, slick as eels, encircle her waist. She kicks back a heel, misses, realises it’s Richard nibbling her neck.
Gotcha, he says before swimming away.
The game dissolves when Marissa and her husband team up and start dunking everyone.
This! Yes, this is how she wants to be. With her friends. Freed of the shellac smothering the rest of her life.
She never knows who startles the snake during its nighttime hunt. She never knows who pulls her from the river, tries to elevate her arm or call 911. She never knows who shouts cottonmouth and who argues copperhead or how Richard shoves them aside saying it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. She never knows how long her husband works on her arm, sucking and spitting out venom in a desperate attempt to save her. She never hears his anguished roar when the paramedics pull him off.
What Shauna does know is how the air turns, a musky rot that stings her nose. How when that dark head, so tiny, opens its jaws, terror zips through her like lightning, slowing each frame as its mouth opens opens opens. How it’s too late to scream or splash. How when she raises her arms, she’s not protecting her face, she is summoning courage, summoning her husband and friends, summoning a tribute to her last glorious, glorious night.
Cole Beauchamp (she/her) is a queer writer based in London. Her stories have been in the Wigleaf Top 50, nominated for awards and shortlisted for the Bath, Bridport, Oxford and WestWord prizes for flash fiction. She’s been widely published in lit mags including Mr Bull, Ghost Parachute, The Hooghly Review, Gooseberry Pie and others, and is a contributing editor at New Flash Fiction Review. She lives with her girlfriend and has two children. You can find her on bluesky at @nomad-sw18.bsky.social
