She yells intermittently from the flat tract house, knees by her ears, her new infant son’s head poking out from inside, facing down at the dirt smears on the wipe-clean laminate inches away that never gets wiped clean, full of cigarette burns and tears, and tears.
She shrieks, and in another room her old daddy cries and dies, death-rattles in over a hundred heat, his lungs two poached pears in humidity. Wheezing and rasping from both ends of the house, both ends of the girl (now baby cries), of the whole spectrum of life.
Weedy Paul peers in to see where the wicked old man lies, sees the bastard mouth-wide and eyes fixed wide in surprise. He checks into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator wide, grabs a cold brew, looks left, sees his girl, mouth wide, legs wide, his third baby shooting out to glide, shoulders unbridled, across the plastic.
I wanna call him Dad,” she cries. He scowls, he eyes the spinning child.
“What, after him who just died?”
“Oh God, he did? Why, God, Why?”
Paul sees, Paul sighs. “He gives, he taketh.”
He raises one eye.
Is the baby even mine?
Is it his, that swine?
Did he on-purpose die? He I could not abide. To come out immediately the other side?
Simon Pinkerton is a nebulous concept who lives with his wife and two boys in London, England. He has the craziest expression! Please read his stories linked at www.simonpinkerton.tumblr.com and find him on Twitter @simonpinkerton