Her hand was rough from working all her life. I gripped her palm and her three end-fingers. My hand wasn't big enough to reach all the way across.
I didn't want to wear black that day.
A crisp reedy song sang out in the silence. It was my favorite song in the whole wide world. It was Mother and Father's song. They were playing too slow.
I tugged her skirt and opened my mouth to say so.
"Hush, child," she whispered.
Two clean mounds, one next to the other. The one on the right was a few months old. The one on the left was new.
I wiped my tears on my already wet sleeve.
I couldn't wait to leave.
YOU ARE READING
The Plop Tart War
FantasiEveryone believes they are living, until they start dying. At what point do you change? Alita was my rock in a raging river. If I held on tightly enough, I would never drown. Then my fingers started slipping and my rock started to break. My sister...
