Forks In The Road

Darcy and I stare at Walter through shatterproof glass at the prison during visiting hours.

Walter’s handcuffed knuckles, pressing against his temples, are white. “Toasting forks?! Those thirty-inch-long skewers you use for toasting marshmallows?”

I nod. “I put them out with the salad at dinner.”

“How could you?” he sputters.

Darcy grimaces. “Sorry, guys. I didn’t mean to get expelled for jabbing people.”

“It’s not your fault, Darce,” Walter says. “Mom should’ve known better than to give you the exact weapons I used for the trail of destruction that landed me here.”

I sigh. “I was trying to normalize them.”

From Guest Contributor Susmita Ramani

Sunday Morning

Staying home sick from Church is the real blessing. The entire comics section all to myself. Mom leaves me hot chocolate with the hard marshmallows dissolving into pure sugar.

Sinking into the beanbag. Feet buried in the shag of the carpet, working knots with my toes. Sips of too hot chocolate that burn my tongue with sweetness

Calvin and Hobbes. Peanuts. The Far Side.

It's a perfect Sunday morning.

I don't hear my older brother come home early. Before I know it, he has me buried under the beanbag, smothering me so I can't breathe.

I hate my older brother.