*Note--this is the first chapter of a story I am writing. It's meant to be dystopic fiction.
Shani Goldstein pushed her stroller down Thirteenth Avenue. Around her, women were emerging from store basements, their purchases either clutched in their hands or shoved under similar strollers. Shani had just ordered a dress from an exclusive shop. True to form, the windows were covered with heavy gray cloth so that the men, going to and from shul and the bais midrash would not be distracted by either the mannequins or the customers.
Shani sat down on a bench to wait for the bus. It was almost 2:00--the time for women to clear the street was less than 45 minutes away. She had to get home anyway to start dinner and get her kids off their buses. Her little son Moishie kicked his legs and giggled. Shani smiled at him. "Hello. Aren't you cute, Moishie?" Moishie giggled back. "Mama." Shani ruffled his curls. He was growing so fast. Already 20 months old, he could put words together. He was also getting into everything. Shani sighed. Moishie would be her last baby. He had been premature, delivered by emergency C-section . Her doctor told her that another baby might kill her. Normally, when they were getting close to two, another one would be growing in her. But no more. She sighed. At least, baruch Hashem, she had seven healthy kinderlach at home.
From down the block, a cry sounded. "Sikrikim!"
To be continued...