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Silver Tongue

By Allison Rothrock 

  1. Untitled
    By Daniella Hernandez
The air was soft and dispassionate on the tongue, a chemical shadow of hollow bodies. It was long emptied, but permeated, like the small round pinpricks of rifled lead and holes. Acrid tang of lust, earthiness of sensation, the faint sickly sweet of marbled fear.

They waved it away with the ends of their cigarettes, gasping out smolder, fish-like. The air grew pure with white smoke. But something remained wet and heavy on the tongue, almost impossible, quintessential.

The thin, finger-colored paper tasted of fire. He drew again, mulling over ash and sin, and spat it in glowing pieces into the pungent dark.