Your mom showed up last night. She’d been kidnapped, she said. Waved off our questions, and toppled into bed without explanation.
She had a couple of bald patches on the sides of her head. They were the size of fifty-cent pieces. As a size comparison, the half dollar may be useless, since it doesn’t exist anymore. Besides, you probably don’t know American currency. So what can I say—your mother’s bald patches are each the size of a small cucumber slice? A polka dot on a clown costume?
Her clothes were really weird, too. She had on a long, floor-length skirt that looked like it was made out of the same gray material as zombie jumpsuits, and on top, she was wearing some sort of velvet top, burgundy colored and sleeveless. She looked like a creative hobo—a seriously sleep-deprived one.
And she didn’t have any shoes.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.