Short Fiction
Erzebet YellowBoy

At the Core

Fat, red, the grocer’s sticker still adhered to its egg-smooth skin; it rested on top of some other fruits in a tattered basket whose stained wicker unwound itself and broke with a snapping sound when touched. There was always a bright, delicious apple in among the Bartlett pears, the purple plums, the fur-covered peaches.

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