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Armbelina |
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by Angela Jane Fountas
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Her heart was a cherry, her blood, cherry juice. She was the length of this arm, no longer. We called her Armbelina, and carried her wherever we went. Every evening, we licked her clean.
Her hair broke free like spun sugar and melted on our tongues. Each eyelash a licorice whip, which kept us even.
Our mother had said, "Mon dieu! Take her away!" And we did, but away was never ending. We walked up and down and over and around and in and out of our castle.
When Armbelina turned six, her heart began to rot. We shouldn't have replaced it, we knew. She was our sister, and the rest of us had hearts of stone. But we were greedy.
Angela Jane Fountas writes and reads and runs WriteHabit.org. Her work has appeared in Sentence, Quick Fiction, Diagram, and elsewhere.
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