By Melissa Llanes Brownlee
Grandpa yells, cursing those fuckers who killed Daisy, and Mom tells him to calm down, yelling not going do nothing, and Grandpa says, we should bachi them, send the black kahuna after them, and Mom tells him what that going do and she never believe that kine stuff anyway, and I’m nodding with Grandpa, thinking about finding hair or fingernails to give to the tutu we all know do that kine stuff, wishing for green fireballs to come from the sky to burn their skin, their eyes, their homes, to kill those stupid hunting dogs who tore our goat apart, not even eating her, just playing tug of war with her legs, her head, blood smearing her white fur, and Grandpa growls, staring into his green bottle as I stare into my own cup of hot cocoa, both of us dreaming of revenge.
Melissa Llanes Brownlee (she/her), a native Hawaiian writer living in Japan, has work published and forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Fractured Lit, Ghost Parachute, Moon City Review, and Prairie Schooner. She has been honored in Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction, and Wigleaf Top 50. Read Hard Skin (2022) and Kahi and Lua (2022) and check out her new collection, Bitter Over Sweet (2025), from Santa Fe Writers Project. Find her on Twitter @lumchanmfa and talking story at melissallanesbrownlee.com.