It is a little before dinnertime when they approach my rented cart, the woman and her baby boy, the woman winding her way through the crowded mall while the baby squirms in her arms. She looks like she needs a place to rest. Her little one throws himself to the side and I see shoes on his feet; clearly he wants to be allowed to walk, but his mother, she will not allow it. Maybe because there are too many shoppers, this evening a week before Christmas.
The first time I ever saw white crosses to mark the scenes of fatal crashes was the day we moved to New Hampshire. My wife, Lindsey, pointed them out as we drove along Route 101. She wasn’t impressed. “Oh my God. How fucking depressing.â€
They’d been in the kiddie park for half an hour when Johnny decided to set the playhouse on fire. Matt didn’t want him to. He thought of the tiny kids, like his brother Sam, who would show up here tomorrow. They’d expect to play house inside, using their sippy cups and Goldfish for pretend tea parties. Instead they’d find a shell of charred wood, the smoke spiraling up to the sky like exorcised demons. Some would cry. Sam would be the first. “Sensitive,†Mom called him. Matt hated it when Sam cried. The tears welling in his brother’s eyes always made him feel powerless. Matt lived for the adoration in Sam’s eyes when Matt got it right.
But you didn’t tell stuff like that to Johnny. One, he’d kick the shit out of you. And two, he’d burn the house in front of the kids. Just to prove he didn’t care what they felt.
Christa M. Miller is a writer based in northern New England. Her stories have appeared in Spinetingler, A Cruel World, Muzzle Flash, Powder Burn Flash, and Flash Pan Alley, and are forthcoming from Out of the Gutter, Demolition, and Mouth Full of Bullets. She has completed her first novel, for which she is seeking representation.