If Utopian Fiction Became The New Trend,

I Can’t Answer Either Question. But The Look She Gives Me Reminds Me Of The Look In The Attack Dog’s Eyes In The Aptitude Test – A Vicious, Predatory Stare. She Wants To Rip Me To Pieces. I Can’t Lie Down In Submission Now. I Have Become An Attack Dog Too.

Because Even A Sliver Of Distance Between Us Is Infuriating.

Sometimes All I Want Is To Be A Few Inches Taller So The World Does Not Look Like A Dense Collection Of Torsos.

Beatrice," She Says. "beatrice, We Have To Run." She Pulls My Arm Across Her Shoulders And Hauls Me To My Feet. She Is Dressed Like My Mother And She Looks Like My Mother, But She Is Holding A Gun, And The Determined Look In Her Eyes Is Unfamiliar To Me.

The Gun Goes Off. I Fall.