Winona Morris always knew she wanted to be a writer when she grew up.  When it became apparent that she was never going to grow up she decided to become a writer anyway.  After sharing her multi-genre fiction on various free blogs over the years she has finally decided to lock her imposter syndrome in a closet so she could be a "real" writer.

She currently lives in coastal Georgia with her husband, 2 kids, and 8 pets.  When not writing or working at the full time retail job she's kept for nearly 2 decades, she likes to read and live vicariously through other people on social media.

Connect with Winona right HERE

DOWN WILL COME BABY

by

Winona Morris

Maple stood by the crib, hands on her hips, head tilted to one side, watching the tiny lump of would-be human inside of it. For the first time since Momma came home with it from the hospital, it wasn’t making a sound. It wasn’t squirming. It wasn’t breathing. The baby was, undoubtedly, dead.

“They’re gonna blame me for this,” she said aloud, as if anyone other than herself and the tiny corpse were in the room to hear her.

They were alone though, the two of them, because the rest of the household, all their dearest friends, and more than a few complete strangers, were outside on the patio for the party. It was really a stupid move, she thought, considering her history with the suckling. It was New Year’s Eve, though, and very nearly midnight. Far be it from them to let Maple’s infanticidal tendencies stop the fun.

“You’ve been a little brat since they came home from the hospital,” her mother’s boyfriend had said earlier that evening. “So you are going to stay upstairs and babysit while your mom enjoys herself.”

Her mother didn’t have anything to say about it. She hadn’t had much to say to her at all since Christmas day when she had caught Maple preparing to put the baby in the oven after removing the turkey. The little thing had fit perfectly in the spare roasting pan and it had seemed too good an opportunity to pass up, considering that the oven was already heated up and everything.

Downstairs, Momma held a glass of champagne in her hand, ready to toast a brand new year, and probably had no idea that the would-be murderess had been left in charge of the helpless sibling.

Maple scooped the silent lump up, making sure it was covered tightly in its swaddling blanket, and she stepped out onto the balcony over the patio, holding it up to her shoulder. If anyone looked up, they would just see her there, the dutiful sister holding the baby, watching the festivities she hadn’t been invited to.

She wouldn’t have really put the baby in the oven, of course. She hated the squirmy, stinky, noisy little shit, but she wasn’t actually the kind of person to cook a living thing. She had just seen the extra roasting pan and thought it would be funny. She’d laugh, Momma would laugh, the boyfriend would laugh. They would take pictures, she expected, a memory to talk about years from now.

Momma had blown it out of proportion, though. The same as when she found Maple standing over the crib with a pillow. The same as the day she found her standing at the edge of the half-frozen swimming pool with the babe in outstretched arms.

She had never actually hurt the child, though, and she honestly didn’t hurt it this time either. She had just gone in, and it had been gone.  It happens all the time with fresh humans. She read about it on the internet.

Really, she should go downstairs, tell the adults. She should call 911 and maybe they would fix the baby the way they fixed other people who stopped breathing. It was almost midnight though. They had even started the countdown.

“10…9…8…”

Momma looked up and saw her standing on the balcony with the baby.

“7…6…5…”

Maple rocked the baby in time with the chants of the crowd.  Momma’s eyes were big, she was pointing up with one hand, clawing at the boyfriend’s shoulder until he turned around.

“4…3…2…”

She rocked the baby harder, farther, faster. She wasn’t really rocking it anymore; she was swinging it now and if it had still been a breathing thing she was sure it would have been howling. Boyfriend was running for the back door, but it was too late. They would never believe she hadn’t done it and really, she’d never have another chance like this in her lifetime.

“1!”

The party crowd exploded in an ecstatic outroar. Confetti cannons were set off, balloons were popped and whatever Momma might have been screaming was lost in the uproar as Maple released her burden over the railing of the balcony on her final forward swing, adding her own cry to the crowd.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”