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RITE of PASSAGE Janice Fixter |
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The unmade road of my childhood ended suddenly, when our neighbour put a bullet in his mouth. My mother locked and latched me in - scared I'd catch the gossip which was spreading down the cul de sac like number eight's measles. That charcoal grey afternoon tea and whispers passed over garden fences, growing stronger until the whispers sang louder than the shun of silence draped around our neighbour's wife. The song called me out, called until each child - white as new net curtains - crept down the road and into the field beyond. This was new ground - following a tune played on smouldering metal. Janice Fixter [Return to Psychopoetica home page] ©The contents of this page are copyright protected. | |