There is a rustle of dead leaves. Dried sap, a branch crack, the whirring teeth of Mr. Omaru’s saw. My father–my real father–is a limb that got axed off the family tree a long time ago now. My mother coughs and cleans phantom juices off her silver with a cloth doily. My sisters clench their knives.

There is a rustle of dead leaves. Dried sap, a branch crack, the whirring teeth of Mr. Omaru’s saw. My father–my real father–is a limb that got axed off the family tree a long time ago now. My mother coughs and cleans phantom juices off her silver with a cloth doily. My sisters clench their knives.

– Karen Russell –

St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves

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