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Brume De la Mort
Sally Domingue

The rain has just started to fall in a mist that catches on shafts of hair making it curl in protest to touch. Sitting beneath a leaning oak is a boy about nineteen, head bowed with a black hooded sweater borrowed from a classmate. The mist clings to his heavy lashes like silver planets suspended. Shrouded by the glistening planets and creamy lids are a pair of dark, intent eyes. His long, graceful limbs are pulled halfway to his chest with arms once encompassing them, but now hanging slack.

He is unaware of the ants that crawled up his pant legs during the night biting in a vein attempt for reaction. Shooting poison into cold flesh that mocked their selfless deaths.

In the boy's right arm, concealed beneath the black sweater sleeve, is an empty needle. He has been stripped of his wallet by a night visitor in passing, having his life stripped away hours earlier.

There's a hole in a wall on the lower east side that resembles a door. The rain has been falling steadily there since dawn and a wind threatens to push it inside. Curled in a loose mess of blankets and wrinkled clothes is a woman. Her cheeks are flushed from walking. Warming her hand is a wallet that she knows will warm her stomach. Her gloves are mismatched making it harder to open with fat fingers.

From above the crumbling building the rain has turned to sleet. The hiss it makes hitting pavement and roofs drowns out the wail below of a woman who is lamenting for her dead baby.

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