VisDare 85


Monica’s fingers weaved through the sunbeams, creating universes in the dust motes floating through the air. Here, a world is created out of nothing, whole civilizations coming to life as the glare of the late-afternoon sun reveals lives which had heretofore remained undreampt of. There, hope comes to an end too quickly as darkness comes to a billion peoples, any trace of their existence wiped out in an instant.

Here, on the worn shag carpet in the peace between the end of the school day and her parents’ arrival home, Monica was no longer fugly. She was no longer clumsy. She was no longer the designated reject. She was not yet stupid. She was not yet dreaming of an excuse to explain away another bruise. She was not yet a thing, unwelcome in one moment and the target of unseemly gazes the next.

In this moment, she was a queen.


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