The woman in the blue dress appears to move in slow motion, the crowd blurring around her. Her sensible but still flattering pumps, in a shade that precisely matches that of the dress, follow a straight path across the pavement.
Scratch that.
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Fiction
Ten-year-old Maggie begins an August Monday at five a.m. She wakes with the sun and lies still for a minute, listening intently.
A short, short story.
She’s so tired she can barely stand up, let alone contort her body into Downward Facing Dog.
Downward Facing Dog. Who came up with these names anyway?
And there, right at the crown, like red intersections on an old map of a half-forgotten place, she sees the physical scars for the first time.