/lit/ - Literature

Thoughts on this opening would be greatly appreciated.

I pulled faces at my brother to make him smile, but all poor Turniphead ever did was flop about like a doll in the trolley seat. I called him that because his head really was twice the size of a normal five-year-old boy’s, and a lot rounder, too. His never-blinking beady eyes only moved when the rest of him did so that sometimes I wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead. There was no difference between his skin and the broken porcelain mum kept in her trolley—except for the forehead where the bruising started. It also helped me laugh, to give my younger brother a silly name. Mum preferred Ephraim.