sometimes it's fiction/traces of discord
last night she heard screams; it came from the radio.
In the kitchen, Mummy was bent over the sink, crying. Daddy paced in the living room, leaving dark tracks on the thick loose nap of the carpet.
We can only wait, he sighed.
Lina didn't understand. Wait? What are we waiting for?
More urgent e-mails flooded my mailbox yesterday, some inquiring, Where are you? Is your phone disconnected?
Other e-mails stress, Yes, we are in a state of emergency. I cringe at visceral eyewitness accounts on the website of the Palestine Independent Media Center, reminded of the pile of genocide-related literature waiting at home.
The night before, screams had filled my room; it came from the radio.
And this morning, I thought I was gonna go crazy: two sentences refused to leave my head as I slept, begging to be written: Pol Pot is dead. There are photographs to prove it.
Behind the shuttered eyes lies a story, from which no catharsis may be gleaned.