Her fist exploded against my shoulder, then receded with the promise of another detonation, another physical aberration from the usual verbal, mental, and emotional landmines. When did she become capable of forging this bomb? My heart thudded staccato, and I strained, pulled. Then I was free. The room blurred as I rounded the couch, my feet pounding the entryway flooring. “Shh, Baby.” I slipped my son’s coat on as he wailed, picked him up, and gripped the doorknob. Maybe he’d forget his auntie struck his mama. Memories condense at three, not two, right? “Fucking bitch! Come back.” Not this time.
Jennifer A. Weigand's short form fiction was an honorable mention in Creation Magazine’s The Midnight Hour Anthology. She is currently completing a fantasy novel. jenniferweigandwriter.com