By Donald Hubbard
This dead girl was christened Barbara, a name parents never consider today, but fifty years ago Barbara was a common name. Like Caitlyn. We mourned her and girls like her who attended college in the city, only to be raped and murdered.
The last time I saw Barbara alive, we had played records and talked about our futures after graduation, but when I left, I did not shut her apartment tightly. She died shortly afterwards.
I had repressed Barbara successfully until last week, when her murderer was apprehended.
I dreamt of her, telling her I missed her. She just faded away.
It took a couple of readings but once I got it, it was powerful.
The beginning I thought she was a baby being christened, but as I read on it made sense and became powerful. Good work.
There could be several meanings to this story. When I finished, I felt a shiver down my spine. I like it when a writer can evoke such strong feelings. This is definitely a Winner.