Micro-Horror Story: Rebellion in One syllable

I wore a blood red dress.

The box with the dead old man was near and I was made to march.

The crowd left space near me, as though I was a hole in the road down which they might fall. They wore type D tops, had soft soled shoes. I tried to see a glint of joy in those hard by, but there was none.

I knew that they were close.

I made my mouth an O. “We are free,” I sang. And from the shade they came, with their sharp suits, their Style A hair, and their guns.

By Petra McQueen

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