Fiction | October 13, 2015

We meet throwing rocks at the Shkola 837, and right away I know we’ll be friends. Zhivka has a terrible overhand but an angry set to her jaw that makes me step back and watch. A stone sails whitely through the air and connects with glass, and then she goes for another. The window shatters. We’re thirteen years old, artists in the making. Failure running through our lives like a rotted thread.

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