fiction by Miriam Sivan


First it was hit then thrown forward. Up and quickly down under the car in front before it rolled undermine. I could feel the body hit the chassis. I heard the impact. Driving north, towards Golan, not knowing where I was going, simply going. The border would stop me soon enough. I had to leave. Just that. What, I wasn’t sure, though all these were afterthoughts. The first and only compulsion was to get out, to be other than there. That flat was cannibalizing my pain. A baby’s waiting bedroom; unhung curtains, an unassembled crib. Six months of expectant life suffocated by a tumor determined to get me next.

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