Abstract
A girl of fourteen fires unseen bullets from her mouth each time she opens it; at fifteen, they flare from her fingers as she forms letters, with a stick in the dirt, with a pencil, taking aim over a keyboard, striking terror with each key.
I. W.A.N.T. T.O. L.E.A.R.N.
What Devil, what God, puts brains in a girl? Minute yet toxic, like radioactive particles, a crack team’s challenge inside a growing frame, to be isolated, eradicated, before a woman’s shape makes them impossible to locate inside all that emerging flesh.
Oh, it is vital work, viral, one bullet in the right soft tissue blasts shut a thousand mouths, myriad minds. One girl, one gun, one message.
I. W.A.N.T. T.O. L.I.V.E. Never mind how you spell it. You won’t learn to write it. Bite down on your bullets. Slam shut the door to the mind you might want opened instead of blown apart.
Rosemary Harris