Teresa Milbrodt, Fictioneer

Here’s the original ending to “The Shell”:

 Odessa heard a door open and close. After a couple minutes she heard it a second time. Then she felt the shell start to move. She still didn’t believe him, figured it must be an empty threat until the scallop slid off the edge of the table, dumped Odessa onto the couch cushions Martin had arranged on the garage floor. The shell gaped over Odessa like a huge open mouth, just missed hitting her arm. Odessa started sobbing.

 You didn’t give me much choice, Martin said quietly as Odessa lay on the cushions.

 The smell of the sea filled her nostrils, soothed her slightly so her eyes did not burn so much. Martin walked around the table and eased the shell off Odessa, centered it on one of the couch cushions. She stopped crying, felt a coolness. Her face relaxed. Her bones ceased to ache. She rolled to her stomach and planted her hands on the cushions, stood up. Odessa knew she had the strength to take the shell away. She pictured herself hefting it in her arms and carrying it to her car, driving home with the trunk cracked open slightly. But when she grasped the edge of the shell with her thin hands she couldn’t budge it an inch. Odessa bit her lip. She saw her veins were growing brighter, nearly glowing through her skin. She laid back down beside the shell. Something around her body had been lost, a sense of grounding, gravity. She felt a release in her legs, her fingers, her spine, sweet and sudden. The smell of the sea was strong, grew more insistent by the second.

 Martin watched her body curl tight as if she were hiding nakedness. He inspected the shell more closely — it had a couple of nicks from falling off the table, but it was damage that could be sanded away. Martin tried to lift the shell back on the table but couldn’t do it on his own. Shoving it off with Odessa inside had taken a lot out of him. He stood beside the shell, beside a very white Odessa. He closed his eyes, hoping she might disappear. When he opened them again, Odessa was not what he had expected. Her cheeks were pale as a full moon but there was a certain beauty in the loneliness, the starkness of it all. Odessa and the shell lay side by side, what was left. He heard the ebb and flow of waves, smelled the slight scent of rot under the life odors of sand and salt.

Here’s the ending that appeared in Nimrod and Bearded Women: Stories.  I do think it’s much more successful than the first version, so thanks goes to Francine Ringold for giving me that extra push:

 Odessa heard a door open and close. After a couple minutes she heard it a second time. Then she felt the shell start to move. She still didn’t believe him, figured it must be an empty threat until the scallop slid off the edge of the table, dumped Odessa onto the couch cushions Martin had arranged on the garage floor. The shell gaped over Odessa like a huge open mouth, just missed hitting her arm. Odessa started sobbing.

 You didn’t give me much choice, Martin said quietly as Odessa lay on the cushions.

 The smell of the sea filled her nostrils, soothed her slightly so her eyes did not burn so much. Martin walked around the table and eased the shell off Odessa, centered it on one of the couch cushions.

 She stopped crying. Her face relaxed. Her bones ceased to ache. Odessa rolled to her stomach and planted her hands on the floor, stood up. Something around her body had been lost, a sense of grounding, gravity. She felt a release in her legs, her hips, her spine, sweet and sudden. The smell of the sea was potent. New strength surged in her arms. Odessa knew that for at least a few minutes she could be powerful outside the shell. She pictured herself carrying the scallop to her car, driving home with the trunk cracked open slightly.

 When she grasped the edge of the shell with her thin fingers, she saw her veins were growing brighter, nearly glowing through her skin. The shell slid more easily than she had expected, off of the cushions, onto the concrete garage floor. Martin gaped at her.

 Odessa pulled it down the driveway, paused for a moment when she felt her arms ache, but a second wave of strength rolled through her body, and she kept going.

 I’ll send a check, she called to Martin.

 Martin could not move. He winced at the sound of the wooden shell grating against the concrete driveway, but shoving it off the table with Odessa inside had drained him. He could not chase her. As Odessa lugged the giant scallop to her car, her power was mythic. But when she was halfway there, Martin noticed her pace beginning to slow. Her body bowed over, closer to the ground, but she kept lumbering backwards, even as her fingers loosened incrementally. He knew what was coming. The slow motion tumbling forward as if into a pool of water. But not just yet. Odessa pulled the scallop along.

 For a moment the driveway dissolved, the harsh cement went blue, the shell floated along and Martin envisioned the barest shimmer of a young woman’s gold hair, hands covering herself in modesty, then he saw the second figure, the silver gray of an old woman’s hair, her nakedness without apology as she tugged the shell through the waves.