Russian Roulette With Toy RevolversA bar. The red in Tim’s mother’s glass disappears. Hit me again, she says. A bar. Tim shall look after himself. A blur. The tire swing replaced every summer wets the muddy ground with its rain soaked shadow. Tim blurs away in his eyes. I am late. I should be there with those underaged beers I promised. We have toy revolvers that look like a heady mix of black and clotted blood.
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