Lost Innocence by Sally Simon

             ​Nana B Agyei CC



Lost Innocence 


“The child I was is just one breath away from me.” Sheniz Janmohamed, Firesmoke



Three Orange Popsicles


When I was eight, Mom and Dad worked. My brother was sixteen and supposed to watch me after school. He hung out watching TV with friends while I played outside. Sometimes I rode my bike around the block. Sometimes I drew on our sidewalk with chalk.


Our neighbors had a son, Omar. He was older than me, but younger than my brother. I never paid him much mind. Sometimes I caught him looking out his window. Sometimes he fiddled with a car. One day Omar called my name and motioned me to come over. He held a paper bag and asked if I wanted three orange popsicles. Sure, I said.


Their garage was bigger than ours; it fit three cars, even though they had two. Junk filled the rest. We walked to the back behind an old car. So no one saw, he said.


If I showed him my panties, the popsicles were mine. It seemed like a good deal. He stared at pink roses on a white background while I counted. At three, he asked if I wanted two quarters. I pulled up my shorts, grabbed the bag and ran for home.



Brother May I?


One day my brother let me climb into the loft of our garage with him and his friends. I had to promise not to tell Mom or Dad. He made me pinky swear. Told me the Bogeyman lived up there. He’d get me if I told.


The loft was dirty and full of cobwebs. Light streamed in from the open door. Three upside-down milk crates surrounded a cardboard box full of glass bottles the size of my index finger, only fatter. My brother plopped a grocery bag next to it. His friends pulled matchbooks out of the bag.


All three got to work. They tore off the cover, exposing two rows of matches. They ripped off the red tips and stuffed them into the tiny glass bottles until they were full. Then lined them up in a shoebox. Seemed dumb to me. Boredom set in, so I asked if I could ride my bike. My brother reminded me not to tell before I left.


That night our garage caught fire and burned to the ground. Firefighters found scattered glass. An interrogation followed. My brother played dumb. No one thought to ask me. If they asked, I would have said it was the Bogeyman.





Along Came a Spider


Mom stopped taking her pills when I was seven. 


She woke my brother and me up in the middle of the night, my dad slogged behind. Yelled to get our shoes and coats on, to run outside. The house was about to explode, she said. Move fast, she said. The four of us huddled by the burned down garage waiting for the worst. With frozen hands and toes, we returned to our beds when she proclaimed the threat over.


A week later, after making baloney sandwiches, she barricaded the cellar door and rushed me to my room. Monsters were in the basement; they smelled little girl and wanted to eat me. Don’t worry, she said, she’d save me.


Another night the family was watching TV together. Mom ran out the door screaming, begging the neighbors to save her. Dad ran after her as me and my brother stood in the doorway, watching. She batted Dad away, claimed he was a giant spider. She growled and hissed and flailed like an injured animal. When Dad dragged her by me, she showed her teeth and said, “You’re out to get me, but you never will.” 


I was no longer afraid of the Bogeyman.

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Sally Simon lives in the Catskills of New York State. Her writing has appeared in  Hobart, Truffles Literary Magazine, After the Pause, Flash Fiction Magazine, and elsewhere. She recently finished writing a novel. When not writing, she’s either traveling the world or stabbing people with her epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.

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