Dawn came with a shattered porcelain boot. I blame the fire engine’s sirens across the street. Boots should be rubber like a hose. The shelves made from weathered oars held a dusty mirror. I pulled the oar from the wall, as easy as an icepick through cheap canvas, poked through the windowpane, cleared the shards from the frame. Seven years, eh.
I tossed the baby. The net well held. An easy target. Got the tot to grip the oar and I lowered her into reaching arms. Had to wipe a flash of my first speaker jump into some mad mosh pit back in Halifax, Nova Scotia when I felt invincible and my buds and I had invented crowd surfing ourselves.
Had to figure how to get the wife down, her mouth was moving with words but I was listening to the fridge melt. A peeling floorboard, laminated—I guess, sounds like microwave popcorn. With the help of a bread knife, I knotted the sofa quilt to our queen-sized upper sheet and told my love to hold on like hell. We believed our third in the oven.
My last expectation was the floor to go and when it did so did I. The fall went all slow-motion, the impact the opposite. The ambulance radio played Nirvana.
David Morgan O’Connor is from a small village on Lake Huron. After many nomadic years, he is based in Albuquerque, where a novel and MFA progresses. His writing has appeared in; Barcelona Metropolitan, Collective Exiles, Across the Margin, Headland, Cecile’s Writers, Bohemia, Beechwood, Fiction Magazine, After the Pause, The Great American Lit Mag (Pushcart nomination) , The New Quarterly and The Guardian. Tweeting @dmoconnorwrites.