by Jeff Wood
Sandra’s daughter ran out into the street chasing after a ball and got hit by a car, five years old, a shame, everybody agreed. Sandra couldn’t bring herself to change anything in the room: the same dolls, same toys, same plaid sheet, even the baby monitor were still in there. She kept the baby monitor receiver in her own bedroom, sometimes she would turn it on when she couldn’t sleep, sometimes she heard things on it. Crying, mostly, barely audible within the static. She went in the bedroom once after hearing her daughter crying and saw a shape under the sheet, a little plaid ghost, laughing. Play with me mommy, she sang, and Sandra fell into the warm soft bed, an insect falling into amber, and never left the house again.
Jeff Wood is a writer currently living in Pueblo, Colorado. He's been previously published in Java Journal, New York Press, Boston Phoenix, Bellowing Ark and the Grey Rock Review. More of his writing can be found at The Oort Cloud.