fiction by Edie Meade
Daddy's breath comes out in battleship puffs ahead of me on our way down the path this morning. "Time to cull the chickens," he says without turning around. "Cull" is how Daddy pronounces "kill."
“You take after your Momma,” Daddy says. Momma doesn’t laugh much, even when she’s tickled. I stand a little straighter so my ribs are tough like hers, and then I’m not as fun to tickle.