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That Hungry Summer – Stephanie Clark

We were greedy in that city; we were voracious. We wanted so many stars – more than the lofty heavens could provide – so we bound them to strings and threw them between the rattling streetlamps and our balconies. The sky was not blue enough for us, that ruddy blue, so we built skyscrapers made of mirrors to brighten the sky and dined on the leftover wisps of cirrus clouds. The sun that beamed down on us, burrowing into our freckled skin – we trapped it in tubes and lit our beds with them, feeling our flesh crackle until we dissolved into gold flakes. That wind, that cool breeze that took with it the sweat from our brows, we compressed it and flattened it until it fit into an infinite amount of desk top fans. We ate the wild of summer, forced it down muggy alleys and between suburban houses, until our city strained at the seams.  As our gullets swelled with gluttony, a crisp red leaf fell from the very top of the tallest oak – our summer feast began to wither, to die. Once more we would starve in the dismal grey, our ribs would caress our skin until, with salivating tongues, summer would once more return. 

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