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I used to dream of cartoon-orange flames singeing the white of her dress. For my sixth-grade essay contest I wrote over seven pages detailing the final days of Joan of Arc. It was one of those uplifting topics thought up by the English teacher called ‘The Most Influential Person In My Life’. I thought it was inspiring or just plain cool that a fifteen year old girl spent her last sizzling hours in fervent prayer, delirium and heat. I didn’t win grand prize, or even honorable mention, just a strange look of disappointment from my teacher, remarking to the class how I was the only one that didn’t write about my mother.

 

UNTITLED | 2000 | writings