Questioning the Angels
Flash Fiction
All about the front yard, Baby ran barefoot through the sparse buffalo grass, the hard clay dirt peeking through it in big gaps, him grinning with that toothy grin. Baby was happy.
Ma had five kids; Baby was the youngest at three-years-old. He was always busy, his little chubby fingers prying sticks and rocks.
“Y’all watch him. I gotta get the clothes from the lye. They done been there too long,” Mama yelled from the porch.
“Yes’m,” my brother Liam answered. I tagged behind him. About that time a chicken hawk swooped down like a tyrant, hungry and flaming from the grey sky. The two of us kids clamored to save the momma banty and her baby chicks.
Baby stopped his waddling around, decided to patter over toward the wagon. In those moments, all things were forgotten.
Next thing we knew, Mama was back on the porch.
“Liam, Nellie! Ya’ll bring Baby. C’mon now, let’s eat!”
Liam and I scrambled. Mama called. “What’s Baby doin’ down there?”
We looked, he was perfectly still, just like a small human statue, like he was just looking at that wagon wheel, counting every spoke. There was a pause, an ominous note coming in on the wind.
A change came over Mama’s face, her sad skin already deeply lined and pocked by the poverty that claimed our lives.
“No!” she screamed. Running to Baby, she fell on her knees, his body limp, his face blue, our feet running to her beating the dead Earth.
