by Mark Finnemore
Happy birthday, you say.
And the birthday memories come, as they always do: Thirteen candles. Balloons. Wrapping paper. Plastic bows. A haunted stare. Lifelong nightmares. Cake knife, dripping with frosting, pointing my way. Are you the devil, my mother asks me, her eyes brimming with terror born of catholic guilt and the damnation of eternal hellfire. I still wonder what she sees.
What? No, mommy. It’s me.
Dad takes the knife and dials the phone. A silent ambulance eventually arrives. Why no siren, I wonder. Later I learn the answer. It never comes up on Jeopardy.
Thank you, I say.
Mark Finnemore is a used-to-(and sometimes still)-wannabe writer who got addicted to twitter 7+ years ago and hasn’t written much but tweets since then. He is EIC of the first and only paying twitterary magazine (as far as he knows) over at @MythicPicnic
Emerge Literary Journal 