PHOTO PROMPT © Na’ama Yehuda
Chimes flutter at six. Each of us in the dorm are dressed in identical cream scrubs. We stand as one from straw floor pallets. We hygiene and breakfast. At seven we converge on the temple, to hang our egos at the door and cleanse our minds.
We sit cross-legged, eyes closed, and are instructed to meditate (i.e. absorb Master’s droning platitudes.)
Instead, my mind wanders to when I walked in on you and Mary; each detail clear until I raise the knife.
Whether in here or gen pop is irrelevant. I vow to remember the knife plunging into your heart.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the swimming host of Friday Fictioneers.