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A Dreamscapes Story
by Alicia VanNoy Call
“Devil's in the well,” says Rhoda.
She says it over breakfast while she forks two pancakes. She adds a slice of bacon, a fried egg from the pile, and drenches syrup over the lot.
I freeze in mid-pour, Brad's glass filling as I stare at her.
“Mom,” says Brad. I look back. Orange juice is just cresting the rim. I pull the pitcher away.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
I push at the window to let out the smell of burnt bacon, the lingering haze of smoke. The window always sticks and I grunt a little. When it finally slides open, I wave my hand in front of my face. I was distracted during the last batch.
Rhoda stuffs a wedge of pancakes into her mouth.
“That's too much, sweetie,” I tell her.
She grins, cheeks full.
I pull her plate across the table and slice her pancakes into pieces. I accidentally split the yolk. Yellow viscous fluid pools. Brad sips at the edge of his glass, eyes on a fly that buzzed in.
“What were you saying about the well?” I ask her.
She taps her fingers on the checkered tablecloth. Still chewing.
“The Devil is in the well,” she says. A glob of syrup sits at the corner of her lip. It glistens. “I saw him.”
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