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Black Shrunken Blemish
by Kyra Baldwin

WHEN FRANCES had to speak publicly, her legs shook. As a kid, she had grown faster up than she had out, and it felt like two wooden stilts extended from her hipbones. “Growing like a weed!” her mother would laugh into the phone. “Our Frances, the weed.” She had never wanted to be a weed and she didn’t much care for dandelions.
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