by Jean Hendrickson
Stop crying — you know I didn’t mean to do it; you couldn’t stand her waaa-waaa-waaa crying, either. Now, we have to figure out where we’ll hide the body, so get the shovel and bring it down behind those trees while I find a soft place to dig. No one will believe it was an accident; they already think we’re both way bad. That’s your fault for sneaking cigarettes out of daddy’s car and tattling on me about everything. Here, give me the shovel, slowpoke; I’m much stronger than you are. Marissa grabbed the heavy instrument, hit him over the head - breaking his neck - then sweated in the cool air as she dug a huge hole, and then buried her brother along with their little sister’s Baby-Cry-Alot doll.
Jean Hendrickson lives right on the beach of the beautiful Chesapeake Bay and consorts with writers in the hope their talent will rub off on her.