short fiction

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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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a white mask with the words apex magazine on it.

Radishes

Weeds rise from the roof. We live beneath an accidental garden. It got worse with the summer rains. The shingles grew moldy, and yellow stalks rooted and sucked at the tar, turning black as they drank it like little oil wells.
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a white mask with the words apex magazine on it.

50 Fatwas for the Virtuous Vampire

The woman smelled good–very, very good. Ibrahim trailed her scent through the Suq al’Ala, following her fragrance amid the stench of vendors who had been standing in the hot sun since dawn, the stink of rotting vegetables, the pungent odors of coriander and cinnamon hanging above tables of stacked apples and lemons, the fumes of oil and gas from passing cars, the musk of donkeys and camels and fowl destined to be dinner.
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