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Snail Killer
by
Elizabeth Maua Taylor
He sat on the
bench, his thick head stuck in his collar. He
couldn’t turn but sensed me as I walked up the
street by his lawn.
His beer he swilled and spilled, and he cursed at
the shape of the can; then he wiped his mouth with
the back of his dirty hand, the same hand he
slapped her with.
She slowly walked toward the car, sunglasses to hide the bruise. “Where ya goin’?” he snapped.
“To buy snail
killer,” she cringed.
I walked past their house, past the wet lawn, past
the bench where he sat and he spat. The snails
crawled out of the wet grass, with thick heads
sticking out of their shells. They couldn't turn
but they sensed me, and I stepped on them, not
losing my stride…
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