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Isa slipped into Sarita’s ice-cream shop and lolled at the counter. Her dark hair hung in ropes down her back, her huipil was unhemmed, skirt dusty. Hilda, a thick-set woman, looked back from the sink, a smile lighting her worn face.
‘Hello, Isa, my love,’ she laughed, and turned back to rinsing cartons. Hilda was known for siren blasts of startling mirth; peals that made others giggle even if they’d missed the joke.
Cassandra Passarelli has run a bakery, managed a charity and sub-edited; travelled in the Middle East, Africa and Sri Lanka; studied literature, journalism and creative writing. She runs a children’s library project in a Guatemalan village, swims in the River Chi’o and practises yoga. She’s published in Earlyworks, Cinnamon Press, Pulp.net, Salt River Review, Litro, Takahe and shortly in Switchback.