by Elise Moberly


Was it you, the one whose mother squat over the laundry bucket to birth her baby? The
rush of blood, remnant of egg-sac left on the bathroom floor? She cradled you: her
figurine of fire, a combustion on the clouds. When your heat left her, what a spectacle: a
dazzling expulsion, a lightshow of ignited bones, tendons, and stretched skin. Her last
embers faded and you were left with her skeleton, a bramble of wires and a singed grass
field. In front of you lies her steaming afterbirth—nothing more than a quiet, sparkling




Elise Moberly serves as the managing editor of The Write Game, which focuses on literary narratives and their emergence in digital mediums. She earned her MFA in fiction at Brigham Young University and serves with the faculty of a local university in Utah. Her work can be found in Redivider, Calliope and Inscape, among others.