The winter hinted at carcasses rustling under our feet; snow-blind, we invented new games in the parlor: Skin the Moose, Pollyanna Pucker, Shake Antler Fake, Scat Treason, Rag and Smack-down. The hearth sparkled but gave off little heat. Outside, the sheen from the frozen river invited the weakest of us. Tea cups. Hunters Beware.
When the heart stops, it isn’t like a closed door. It’s more like a little man inside you, a hat of holes for the rain, imploring you in the atresia of assumed parts to squeeze, but not crush.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. His work has been featured in Breadcrumb Sins, Vis a Tergo, Lacuna Journal, FourPaperLetters, and others.