Whisper When You Find the Words

Whisper to me when you find the words. It’s okay; nobody has to hear.
There are mushrooms growing on the windowsill—gray and crooked, reaching for the light like they don’t know any better. The traffic below moves through the lights—rain beating windows, wipers slashing, wet.

The train thunders by, rattling everything in the apartment, as Dad slams the door. They’re at it again. Why doesn’t she just walk away? Why can’t she just claim some independence? Don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself.

Nothing good is happening on the other side of our bedroom door.
Glass shatters.

Your face darkens as we hide under the covers, praying the storms will pass.
We lost one set of earplugs. We’re gonna have to share.

I would rather be deaf than she be blind to his absolution—his blatant thievery of our childhood, that irrational hatred of herself that won’t grant us this freedom, this one chance to make a better life for ourselves.

Might be better homeless than in this mess.
I might still be a kid, but I ain’t that fucking stupid.

You only get one chance in each moment—probably best to take it instead of his hands, his dick inside you again. Why, Mama? Why?

Let him release that hate somewhere else.
It’s not necessary for you to keep suffering.

Grass may not always be greener, but it sure is better off brown than being dead. Springtime comes around every year. You can’t enjoy the weather if the storm takes you.
You gotta make a choice.

We hide in the bedroom closet like it’s gonna make something better, like we couldn’t be found. My little brother’s breathing hard beside me, clutching his toy car like it could drive us both out of here.

Where else can we go? Jump out the fifth-floor windows—smash, blood all on the ground? Let this heavy rain wash away all our little sins?

Fists flying through the air, stairs to slow the fall, tempest toss the sea.
This storm is gonna break.
Is it gonna break you?

There are mushrooms growing on the windowsill—same ones as before, only taller.
Whisper when you find the words.

Kyle Yandle is mid-thirties book nerd, a working-class dreamer who loves telling stories, and an all-around geek—a badge he wears proudly. He lives in the mountains of western North Carolina with his wife and children. His debut novel, Finding Sound, is forthcoming from Moonshine Cove Publishing (February 2026). His short fiction has been published by Down in The Dirt.