100 on Between

The building etched itself before me in heat lightning quickness and misted energetic lines, just enough to sense its shape. I didn’t need to see clapboard and concrete to climb its stairs. Shrugging my hands into my coat, I bobbed my head. The doorway was old, low and unseen. I’d only be missing the faded flecks of yellow paint stuck to my skin and the bruised forehead if I collided with its frame. That was the thing about the inbetween. Both worlds melded in a way that left each side a free hand to smack the shit out of you.

Author/Contributor: Teresa Little

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