photo of rotting green apple on grass

Stab Apples by Molly Bonovsky Anderson

The shirtless boys on Snow Street have sharp sticks. They jut ‘em up as we walk by. “Wannan’ apple?” What they’re offering: Rot. Overripe, bad juice dribbling down dirty wood into dirty fists curled tight around the only things they know. Red as a beating heart, brown as earth, stuck on the tip of a…