April 8, 2019
I still can't remember whose fault it was,
And it didn't matter because my brother held the knife;
A little, leather-coated box cutter
From my father with bullet holes carved in
Its handle, sharp as my silver-flecked tongue,
Carved in wood grains of our tree near by me.
I think the door must have been stuck once more,
My brother's fist struck the window-pane twice before he cried
Then a third time before it gave into
Our little kitchen with tiles and floors.
And we were not locked out no more, thanks to Him and his latches and our unlocked doors.
YOU ARE READING
YAWP: A Collection of Short Stories
Short StoryShort stories I have written over the past five years that I may never finish-ranging from a preacher who lied about the word of God to a little girl with monsters in her basement, these are all stories I wrote myself and may never continue. In the...
