Rebekah’s feet ache. It’s been a shitty week… The police insist her missing son’s been radicalized by ISL. He’s wild, but… surely… not evil?
Music wafts soothingly from Alexa. Breaking news on the muted TV flashes a van, plowing down holidaymakers. She looks away. Never Let a Client See You Cry, she scolds herself, coloring Chloe’s hair. Lilac, today. Coloring blunts Rebekah’s panic. (On TV, van-bloodied victims stumble…)
Old Mrs. Highsmith seats herself complacently, with endless grandchild gossip, drip-drip-drip. Rebekah will perm and set her thin, silver hair and smile, feigning fascination, barely breathing, while her churning, inner catastrophe mounts…
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.
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