The Crying Baby

She begged the baby to stop crying, but it wouldn’t. The room was small and hot and sweat furrowed between her eyebrows. Her cheeks burned red from the heat, her eyes were bright, darting around the room, hoping to discover something that would distract the baby and stop it from crying. It was a pretty little thing, really. She took a long look at the baby lying in her arms, studying it with a concentration that made her frown. “Stop crying, please”, she whispered to the baby. But it paid her no heed and continued wailing, its face red and scrunched up like a squashed fruit. She rocked the baby frantically in her arms, willing for the child’s mother to return home quickly. A movement outside the cottage caught her eye. Standing at the window, she glimpsed the old, unused well in the yard. It creaked and groaned when the wind blew. She looked at the baby again. She looked out to the well. A kind of calm came over her face, and she began to smile. The light of understanding flickered in her eyes. “Hush, little baby”, she crooned softly as she walked out into the dark, quiet night.

Sophea T. Amari

2 Comments

pinlean

I know what you mean. After I wrote this- I wondered what made me write it. But I leave it to your imagination, which I’m guessing, is pretty much on the same page as mine. 🙂

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Figur8

I like this piece – disturbing and ominous. It plays with my mind – perhaps more so because I am a mother.

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