Caitlyn Siehl
F2O LitStyle: Review of Crybaby by Caitlyn Siehl
October 13, 2016
Simon Pinkerton
October 15, 2016


Walked out the door to grab the newspaper all covered in summer dew. Saw the meat pile heaped by the trash at the end of the road. Flies all swarmed around it, its red muscle showcased by the decayed flesh and lack of fur. Another roadkill, maybe.

Inside, the coffee was ready. Steam from the cup opened my nose pores and I hacked up a bit in the sink. Blood spotted in the mucus.

Gathered up the trash around the house while the bath ran, filled up two nice Hefty bags with the drawstrings knotted. August humidity had crept inside the house, misting the single coat of Behr paint I afforded the place last May and my glasses.

Walked out the door briskly, throwing away the trash. Caught a peek at the roadkill. Seems it had flesh on it after all.

Trashcan was covered all inside with grub worms and maggots and fat, huge ants. Held my breath and dropped in the bags, shutting the lid. Saw the animal again. Covered in flesh and matted, thick wool, shorn close to the skin.

Bath was almost overflowing. Shut it off, removed sweatpants and Hanes panties. Kicked to pile in middle of room. Saw through the blinds. Saw the sheep, its wool fluffing in the direct sunlight of midday.

Went to bath but forgot towel. Grabbed one from pile in middle of room. Out front, by the trashcans, was a wet mark on the cement. Sheep was nowhere to be seen. On either side of the quickly drying spot were a row of trash cans, all emptied. They usually make more noise picking up the trash, I thought.

Bath was uneventful. Washed hair. Lit incense. Washed armpits. Prayed for an hour-ish. Washed ass. Drained water. Dried hair. Towel still damp from previous use.

Don’t know why I looked outside. Sheep was stumbling around among the trashcans, bleating. Thick, dry, white wool. Like cotton candy, like Q-tips, like dandelion seeds. Thicker and whiter than all I’d ever seen.

I dried my eyes. Threw on Hanes (fresh), jeans (blue), and shirt (black-faded-grey). Walked downstairs, saw sheep through window: younger, energetic. Breathed. Drank water directly from faucet, choked. Spit. Blood in mucus. Opened front door.

“You seem frazzled,” said the lamb. “Or do you not know who I am?”

“I do not,” I replied.

“Murder me.” The lamb said, rapidly shrinking. “Quickly.”

“I cannot.”

“But your doorframe stands so white and clean.” Almost a cotton ball now.

“I cannot.”

“I have come to save you. Blunt your sword.”

“I cannot,” I said, shaking. “Or I will not.”

Rest among the winds when the Lord asks you end, love. Rivers run sweeter in the summer than in the holydays and high winters otherwise. Blood filling the carcass can only dance in place while the breath circulates in with the universe and out with the whole self. When I stepped back inside, I saw (and watched) the whole world wash away

C.T. McGaha is a writer from Charlotte, NC. His work has been featured in Juked, Word Riot, Potluck Magazine, and 90s Meg Ryan, among others. He watches too much television. In a perfect world, Broad City would be a live performance performed at all hours of the waking and sleeping hours, and he would be able to witness this. Follow him on Twitter @ctmcgaha.