Editors' Prize Winner | April 23, 2019
Jamilla
Jo Anne Bennett
My assistant, Boris, came flapping through my front door like an injured raven, one arm clasped to his side, the other flailing widely. He was dressed all in black, head to toe, his nylon shirt sweat-pasted to his torso. Gobbets of red mud adhered to the hems of his trousers. He had been drinking; he moved sideways, unsteady, at an angle, with his head turned askew. His eyes were restless; he knew how unacceptable his message would be, and he wasted no time greeting me but came right out with what he had to say.
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