March 4th, 2014 by adminMalala Lyn Lifshin New from Poetic Matrix Press Available on our website ON THAT DAY the teenagers chattered with their teachers as the school bus rattled along the country road. They just finished a term paper and broke out singing a Pashton song. That music must have been the last thing Malala heard, one of the last she remembers. Two men flagged down the bus, boarded, screamed. Which one is Malala? Silence. The rust leaves all that moved in the breeze. The girls, terrified, frozen. Only their eyes moved to Malala. That one the gun man said. Fired two shots. Then he fled. The Teacher said Drive to the local hospital, stared in horror at Malala’s body, bleeding and bleeding, unconscious in her friend’s lap.