Violation of a woman in her daily life
Linda is her nose smelling the first morning coffee.
Linda is her eyes watching the rain bouncing off the waterproof surface of open umbrellas.
Linda is her mouth welcoming a salmon & avocado toastie between the tongue and the palate.
Linda is her ears listening to Son of a Preacher Man as she rearranges the books on the shelves.
Linda is her hands cuddling a fat marmalade cat perched on the steps of a church.
Linda is her legs dancing on a yellow rug.
Linda is her voice reading the label on a shampoo bottle while sitting on the toilet.
Linda is her loud, deep laugh, reminiscent of her grandmother’s.
Linda is the excitement of Thursday night when she meets with her friends to go to the movie club.
Linda is her purple anger when she lends a book and it isn't returned to her.
Linda is her love for ancient cemeteries, wildflowers, fig jam, train rides, and suspenders.
Linda is a flowery dress, the hair on her legs, a pair of old boots, the fringe that is always too long.
Linda is a summer night by the sea, on the beach, under the moon.
Linda is the sound of the ticket inspector muffled by the noise of the wheels screeching on the tracks.
Linda is the dark, narrow road that leads her home.
Linda is the volume of the music that she turns up so as not to hear the noises of the dark.
Linda is her head moving carefully to see if there is anyone behind.
Linda is a creeping sensation.
Linda is breathless.
Linda is a quick pace.
Linda is terror.
Linda is the fast beating of her heart.
Linda is a lament.
Linda is an instant.
Linda is a sad memory.
Linda is a framed photograph.
Linda is a song.
Linda is alive.
Linda is dead.
Every story is inspired by true events.