We’d been in that house before. The construction was a stopped clock. We braved it to the second floor. At the top was only a two-by-four beam. My brother went first, quickly filling his shoes with hubris. My turn. The beam parted a pink sea of insulation and the air was electric with trespass. I walked out and my ankle buckled. I fell through the pink. The wind became my enemy, knocking loose my lungs. A secret for us to carry: How I fell like a boulder. How I died for a minute. My brother above, whispering, Are you dead?
Chrissy Stegman lives in Baltimore. Her work has appeared in many journals, including Gone Lawn, Gargoyle Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Poverty House, Stone Circle Review, and Fictive Dream. www.chrissystegman.com X: @pimpledrose Instagram: @thegoosefaerie