Silver Creek The witching hour

his world was one of warm silence, the cadence of his mother's heartbeat setting the tone for his early life. he existed in the space between her ribs, and yet his presence was one of unreality. he did not breathe; therefore he did not exist. he did not live, not until the violence of constricting pressures grasped the babe. the child thrashed, fearful, shoved along a narrow passage that molded him, wrenched him, wrought from him a first cry.

air struck his lungs and he gagged upon it, screaming again in terror and the seedlings of rage. again! and again! venting his confusion and anger upon the waking world, until a great warm muzzle descended and wiped the gore of birth from him. despite himself, the boy relaxed, unfurling beneath her cleaning kiss, and swung his tiny blind head in the direction of the milk.

cortland.