Pre-Test Ritual

Today, 

Approximately at noon, I am the perfect grandson, for a perfect hour. 

I bite down on the legacy in my mouth, and it tastes more of

A brass toothpick than a silver spoon. 

Everybody watches me, with the fear of falling through.

My poor father in his chair, asking his father's grandson in earnest,

To just balance that needle between my teeth a little longer,

For our sake. 

If I ace, 

I will fix the world, and every daughter it buries inside. 

I walk into the room,

Score a perfect ten.

Crawl back, heavy with breasts,

Cut my hair, and

Swallow. 

About the Author

Molly Jones is a sophomore English major with a concentration in creative writing. She focuses on short horror and speculative fiction, with an emphasis on working-class literature.