There was love. A small bed—warm, if threadbare—which they shared. But Carrie wheedled for satin princess sheets. There were quiet evenings. Precious time together, reading, without the need of radio propaganda. But Carrie whined for a porcelain dollie, like Sophie Stangl’s. There was chicken soup and knish. Carrie demanded bratwurst. There wasn’t much, in truth—but it was comfy. Routine. And when reality came to call, it arrived by night. As they pushed her into the closed cattle truck behind Bubbe, Carrie felt its pitying glance. Wait, she thought… Maybe… I should have… But that was it.
kerry rawlinson: Decades ago, autodidact & bloody-minded optimist kerry rawlinson gravitated from sunny Zambian skies to solid Canadian soil, nurturing family and a career in Architectural Design. Fast-forward: she follows Literature & Art’s Muses around the Okanagan, barefoot, her patient husband ensuring she’s fed. She’s cracked some contests (e.g. Geist; Fish Poetry Prize) and features lately in: Ellipsis Zine, Spelk, Across the Margin, Pedestal, Connecticut River Review, Reflex Fiction, Riddled With Arrows, Arc Poetry; amongst others. Website: kerryrawlinson.tumblr.com. Twitter: @kerryrawli.
The Centifictionist 
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