Dots Dots Dots


By Jenn Benningfield

A bone-dry Monday. Ten into twenty into thirty. A full month of dots. A month full of dots.

Her body greeted each introduction (and farewell) with pique. She wanted to scream. What would she need to invent, ingest or incinerate in order to return to the start?

A shut mouth, a level head.

Oh the lesson was well-learned.

When the psychiatrist asked her to draw a picture, she simply pressed the nub of the pen to the paper three times.


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