A Space for Writers of the World
A fist goes into the drywall, leaves another hole I’ll have to fix. I’m afraid to leave my room. I cover my head with a pillow. I can hear her bare feet slap against the wood floor as she runs. Mom barricades the bathroom door with her body. Father yells and pounds the door. He kicks, breaks the door from the frame.
Sobs after— You made me do this. Flashing red lights shine through my blinds. Knocking on the front door becomes a loud bang and gets louder. I cover myself in blankets try to disappear.
They’ll take dad again. My sister Angelica stands in my doorway. I see her cry, like when my brother Juan shot six humming birds with a pellet gun. He placed their tiny purple blue bodies on the windowsill for her to find.
Juan laughed the way my father does.
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Scott Hernandez was born and raised on a small chicken ranch in southern California. He has lived among the vanishing agricultural communities that are often seen in his work but are now gone forever. His recent work appears in American Poetry Review, Packing House Review, Red Wheel Barrow, Acsentos Review, and Palabra.