gallery or museum, looking at old photographs, sitting in naturejust waiting for a little spark that I think I might be able to use for something. The rest of the story can be read over there. Conversations were had but were unimportant. If she was being honest, and she knew she shouldnt be, she would tell her friends that she was more than happy that Braun left her alone. They continued to wait and watch, and eventually they realised she was dead. Chelsea would say anything.
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The wonderful people at Overland published this story in journal #207 which is also online as archive. Then I started thinking about the dream Id had and what that might mean on a psychoanalytical level. Arms linked, they walked slowly and spoke of their respective daughters, Chelsea. Her face might have been considered pretty if it wasnt for her swollen cheeks and bruised skin. By her side was a mask with a long rubber hose connected to an oversized bag, which could fit easily over ones shoulder. She had gotten used. Were all proud of Chelsea. Given my bodys inability to accept a pregnancy, it was natural I began thinking about the role of parents, the role of children, especially as I was writing about a dysfunctional family. Most of all she hated the other women.
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