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Henley to Oxford on the X39; that summer it was an oven. It’d been a hot day, a day for getting laid or else getting stoned, and my back was aching like a bitch.
   I swear under my breath because of this sharpness between my shoulders, and this dirty-looking bearded gardener bloke on the next seat who smells of vinegar looks over and goes, ‘When was the last time someone crucified you then?’
   At least, I supposed he was a gardener.
:iconmalicedomestic:

Author's Comments

Second piece for Flash Fiction Month. I've another in the works right now, which hopefully will go up later today.

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July 6
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