Even rocks bleed when the light is too intense, when ice falls in July. Silent women waiting to see if there has been any movement. Trees without shadows. Windowless dwellings. A child by the side of the road, rolling the sun into the ditch, burning the day, gathering what remains of flower fields. Rocks have no veins. Blood is everywhere. In the steel winds of November, in the dense heaviness of August storms. The child has no face; she wears a blank mask, the fibers of sleep twisted and broken. Yelling down the road. Striking the ground, searing the dirt. Metallic, acrid. The mask has slipped. Even the waiting women hesitate. Ferocious. The child has disappeared.
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Andrea Moorhead
Picture Rupert Loydell
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