Nat. Brut ARCHIVE
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by J. Bradley
The print seeped into my fingers, out of my mouth. The passengers stared at the four-year-old reciting the news.
My palm received the signals of snow-stained billboards. I ignored the rumble of stomachs and cracking of knuckles as I sold them on Egg McMuffins and
After therapy, mom took me to the cafeteria with the promise of Cracker Jack. I ate around the peanuts, hoped the prize would be a ring instead of a sailor tattoo pickled with salt.
“Want milk. Want mom.” My hands as claws clacked after each demand.
My right index finger broke where its ribs would be. My back tensed against the hands of the playground patrol. She pushed me towards the rusting iron growing out of the sand.
In the portable, I remembered where the cupcakes slept beneath the checkered square in my weekly quarantine from Mrs. Mack’s class.
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