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The Wicked Flee Where None Pursueth

by Camara Fairweather

Apart from the usuals who wandered in and out to sift through old records the shop was unusually quiet. Marcel, the sales clerk, was leaning back on the brick wall behind the register, rolling a joint between his fingers. He took the fixings, rolled, licked, and twisted, then placed the cigarette in his mouth. The rose-colored tip glowed gold as his thumb stroked the wheel of the lighter, before browning, and turning black.

He stared out the display window as he smoked. The evening sky was a pure, uninterrupted pink…

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