Flash Fiction by Sierra D. Hill

I was standing on my tippy toes on the edge of my claw foot bathtub, waving my arms out my second-story window. The people across the way were kneeling and sitting on their rooftop, crying to the sky. The muddy water was up to my neck, and my body ached for relief, but I saw none, other than death.

As I gave in to my aching body and the water’s steady rise, I saw her. Her hair looked like it’d just been done—parted down the middle into two braided pigtails, wrapped with hair ties that had two big round pink bubble balls on each side. When I was younger, I called them klik-klaks. I’d wave them back and forth until the balls collided—clack! Momma would say, “Stop clacking them balls togetha’ befo’ you break ’em!” Momma was in the other room now, floating on her belly.

The girl looked like she was just sleeping. The water around her was calm—the calmest it’d been since the storm came to wipe us out. I watched her float alone down Broadstreet, past where my silver ’97 Toyota Camry should’ve been parked, a blue loveseat, some kitchen cabinets, and a cherry bicycle.

I couldn’t look away from her neatly parted hair, clearly done with care. Maybe she sat between her mama’s legs while watching her favorite show. A boat came around the corner onto Broadstreet. The man used his oar to push the little girl out the way, and she kept on bobbing, up and down, in that muddy water. A place a child shouldn’t be.

That’s when the people across the way pointed the boat toward me.

Text © Sierra D. Hill