Julie Brooks Barbour

September 18, 2012


She was locked in a house with grates in the walls, flames licking the iron bars.

Those red tongues never tired. The frosting on the cake spilled over the plate

and onto the table, pooling. Something for an anniversary, she’d thought, but he

wouldn’t join her. He checked in periodically, like a doctor making his rounds.

She stuck her finger in the liquid icing, drew a spiral. She spun and spun.

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