The Corascene Dog

Storm chases itself across the sky. Crimson. Gold. Lightning so close Sierra nearly tastes it; remembers as a child licking a battery, imagines it'd taste like that.

She and Betty sit on the front porch, drinking mint juleps. Drowning thunderous rain dashing gainst the roof. Electricity sparking the air alive.

Then as quickly as it'd come, it's gone.

Continuing conversation before the storm, Grandma Betty asks.
You're a only child, aren't you?

Question hangs in still air a moment. Sierra takes a drink. Mint mingles with smoky bourbon. Sort of. I had a twin brother. He died in the womb.