portion of the artwork for Randall Brown's fiction

I Never Cried Again
Randall Brown

My father tells the story of the exorcism. Chablis as the holy water. For the past six months, he had rocked me, chanting, “Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up.” Clearly, not the work of the devil, but colic. My mother made sure she didn’t rock me near an open window. Too tempting. “Leave this baby! Leave this baby!” they both said, encircling me. They dipped their fingers in the Chablis, spritzed me. Naked, I gazed up into the mobile of planets, the entire galaxy, and behind that, luminosity. “We want to love him!” they sang. “Grant us peace.” Maybe the wine made that world spin. “Thy will be done!” I reached up, past my parents, to what lay beyond.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 33 | Summer 2011