April 14, 2015

“Mother had her hammer. She switched it from hand to hand. She swung the hammer and broke a hole through the plaster. Mother cleaved the wall apart. The plaster chipped and shattered, revealing a large black space. When the space was as tall as mother and as wide, mother put her hammer down. She stood before the hole for a long, long time, then gestured for us to come near.”


“The mother outside the hall turned the hammer in her hand, then directed the metal head at her other hand’s thumb. She shattered the nail. Her finger turned black immediately. The bruise spread from fingertip to bottom knuckle. The black was tinged with green and yellow. It was such a large splotch. It seemed contagious. But the splotch was just a splotch. And the mother outside the hole waved her hand in front of her face for a moment, shaking her hand hard to change the blood flow. Her finger swelled with rushing blood. The bruise darkened. It puffed. She aimed the hammer at her thumb again, swung, and missed. She said her thumb was lucky.”


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