Past Life

One hundred seventeen in the desert, so we coil up Mt. Lemmon highway to cool off. I start to doze, then a flash in front of the car, a thud. Tan and white spots disappear under our tires. “Oh, God, she’s still alive. What are we going to do?” I barely get the words out before someone else pulls over. The driver gets out of his truck, aims for the head, shoots. The writhing stops. We think of the cowards we are. We think of our shelter dog, still in the car. She doesn’t react. She’s heard this sound before.

Michele Rappoport is living the small life in Arizona and Colorado. She travels in an RV, creates tiny art, writes poetry and short fiction, and has a certification in small-animal massage. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in High Desert Journal, Literary Orphans, Right Hand Pointing, and The Centifictionist. She wishes she were taller, but she is 5’3″ and shrinking.

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