It’s Monday, time for a Fiction in 58.
Her face is a plastic mask, devoid of emotion, color. She’s chosen to hide what’s inside. It isn’t fear. Something so much more sinister.
She manages a smile. They smile back. She dreams of pipe bombs, scorched flesh, pain.
The women circle.
“Either a church bazaar or a riot will break out,” she whispers.
She’s ready for both.