She stood at the back and tried to make herself as small as possible.
Not easy, with her stature and attire.
Still, she hoped the shadows would afford some obscurity. Bad enough to be made to attend and be tallied. It would be worse to be noticed. To be named.
The speakers roared. The bands played deafening propaganda.
She stood. She clapped. She swayed as necessary.
She stayed alert. Her life depended on it.
But in a corner of her mind, she was a child still, pumping feet toward a blue sky. Still free. To believe. To think. To be.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Ted Strutz
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