By Natalie McNabb
August limps past the Ferris wheel, a cotton candy wisp stuck to her cheek. She stops, licks her dusty lips with a snow cone-blue tongue while deciding how to spend her sister Summer’s last dollar bill. Ring toss? Animal balloon? She squints at a cloud puff caught between the sky and bronzed hill.
Yes, Mom’ll blame the missing babysitting money on her brother, Patrick.
Or, Dad will.
They always do.
August limps off toward the tent of the two-headed boy instead, and when she sees him peak out from behind the red- and white-striped curtain—first his one head and, then, the other—she knows his parents would never blame anything on him either because they’re still too busy blaming themselves.
Copyright ©2011 Natalie McNabb. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
Natalie McNabb lives and writes in Washington State. She loves red—red dragonflies resting on bamboo stakes, red wine in her glass, red flip-flops on her red-toe-nailed feet—and words that caress, tickle, irritate, or beat against her soul. Natalie has been shortlisted for several awards, including The Micro Award and Glass Woman Prize. Her writing appears in Norton’s Hint Fiction anthology and various other literary publications. Please visit her at www.nataliemcnabb.com.