"Not my fault. Not my fault..." She typed like a naughty schoolchild.
How could she have known her life's work, some called it dogma, would catch on so well? That people would eschew effigies and kidnap the real man?
Now she had a CEO in her basement. What to serve for dinner?
The dress was slightly rough on her skin as she raised her face to the
warmth of the setting sun, the soft ringing of sheep's bells in the pastures
beyond. Not a lavish wedding, her dress was poplin rather than fine silk.
Then war, and that glorious day the resistance prevailed. Not for long. Now
her soul-mate hangs from a lamp-post in their beloved Tulle streets and she
won't move forward. Instead, she retreats to their day, the sun, the dress.
Angie Gallop is a freelance writer who lives in the tiny town of
Thessalon, located in Northern Ontario.