My mother's afraid the dog will drown. It's raining and our street is flooding and the dog is standing on top of his doghouse. My mother is pregnant. I can stand beneath her stomach and not even see her face. I watch her from the kitchen window. She's shoeless. She holds her arms out like she's walking a tight rope. The yard and the rain swallow her legs. I feel cold. I want a cookie. Back inside, the dog slips all over the kitchen floor. The hem of my mother's shorts is wet. You should lie down, she tells me. I close my bedroom door. I slide on my stomach under the bed and find a red toy car whose doors flip open and a pair of blue handled safety scissors. One day I will take the scissors and cut off all of my newborn brother's hair.
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This story appeared in elimae a couple of years ago.
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I like this! Could the N maybe cut "off" all of my newborn brother's hair? It feels like it's missing a word right now. I love that the mother is afraid the dog will drown- sounds like my mom. Every day she has a different fear. This is strong stuff!
You're right. It does need another word there. I'm going to add it right now. Thanks for the feedback. By the way, I've read your stories many times and love your work.
I like this too! The point of view is beautifully done; the whole piece is close and vivid, evocative. Very nice.
Thanks Claudia!
God - I saw this in Elimae and flipped. Sorry I missed it here.
Nice writing again.
Thanks Meg and Jon!