
MY STICKY-FINGERED GIRLS by Lynn Mundell
I look at the baby doll abandoned on the floor next to its ripped box, its unblinking blue eyes staring back at me. One of its fat cloth legs has been ripped off in the fight.
I look at the baby doll abandoned on the floor next to its ripped box, its unblinking blue eyes staring back at me. One of its fat cloth legs has been ripped off in the fight.
Tamberlyn fell on the pavement, hard. Her body slapped against it. It sounded like someone dropped a lot of meat.
The window over the bathroom sink, up high and pointing out, the only window in the whole house where all you see is sky.
Catastrophe, he thinks. Couldn’t have gone worse.
On my way out of the closet I noticed a trunk at the edge of the bed… An antique padlock hooked through the clasp, but it was unlatched, so I slid it out and opened the trunk.
Your eyes follow their tiny finger and, sure enough, there’s a nine-millimeter handgun lying in the middle of your neighborhood street at eight in the morning on Fat Tuesday.
Once my father finishes and leaves, my mother leans back into her chair, rests her eyes on the clock above us, and begins to recall the lovers of her past.
She hits the button to go live and slowly eats something. It could be anything: an apple, a banana, a small granola bar. Comments fly in, encouraging her.
It’d been just one of the gummies, one of the 5mg guys that looked like peaches but for some reason tasted like grapes.
They ask her if she knows what day it is. They try to make her guess how long she drifted for. She won’t. Four days. That’s what they tell her.