Drift past the point of explosion

Summer wheeled into fall, everything off the rails. Dara bounced on her bed making wishes like a kid. She toppled mid-leap and poured half through the window. She swore it was an accident. Her dark hair smelled of freesia as I carried her cracked and screaming to the couch down the hall.

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By Eirene Gentle

Eirene Gentle is a writer of little lit, poetry and essays.