Fiction
6/2/95
By Donald BreckenridgeSophia’s reflection shivered. I removed my hands from my front pockets and cracked my knuckles. She gently blew into the black coffee while holding the cup beneath her lips.
Cherries
By Wolfgang BorchertGlass clinked somewhere outside. Now he’s eating the cherries meant for me, he thought. I’m the one who has the fever. She put the cherries outside the window to make them really cold.
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