six

by Magda Lynne

We stood, the four of us, between the dining room table and the china cabinet. Me, closest to the ground. The yelling coming from my mom in the kitchen, not unusual. Instinctively, I look at the other three to gauge where this might lead. Something in their expressions signals different today and I pull my stomach in tight. My mom pulls a plate from the kitchen cupboard and throws it to the floor. My siblings start to shuffle around, stepping behind one another. Human shields. All three of them dance a dance of survival. I can’t predict or see what’s coming next. The danger, unmistakable. Without a word, I duck low. At six, it isn’t far. Another dinner plate breaks on the kitchen floor. Don’t move. I watch their feet continue to shuffle. Another plate crashes in the kitchen. I hear their voices, part sob, part scream, “Please, Mom, stop.” Suddenly, they are down on the carpet with me. A plate now overhead, crashes into the china cabinet. Then another. Glass fragments cover our bodies. I hear sobs and cries and strangled breath. I still don’t move, I keep my nose in the carpet and my body as flat as I can make it. Six was when I learned real danger lived around me.

BIO: Magda Lynne is an emerging writer from Orange County, California. She writes poetry, memoir, and flash fiction and CNF, and is currently developing her first chapbook of poems along with a memoir project. Previously, she spent decades teaching K–12 students the science of reading and is now dedicated full-time to her own creative practice. Her work explores identity, memory, motherhood, and the quiet emotional undercurrents of everyday life. Connect with Magda on Instagram.