In a pen, I slip. My arms reach toward a post, my hand catches but then snaps release at the quick rip and gash—a jagged nail. Blood boils brilliantly from my palm. For a moment I stare at the spring spilling forth. I dash frantically, though the manger, down the walk, and into the cookroom—where I know Old Mother will be. And she is. Only, she does not cook, nor clean, nor scrub. The door is shut. I open it, barking. She sits at the table. Before her lay a flower the color of daybreak sun, a magnifying glass, charcoal shaved to a point, a vellum leaf with rows of symbols. Mija, what—I stretch my arm. Blood droplets speckle glass, I slip through the floor.
© 2008 Valerie Pell
was born in Northern California where she grew up despising her syrupy piano teacher but adoring her inimical cat. However, she has since changed allegiances and now lives happily ever after with her dog and typewriter in Chicago.
