Magical realism Stories

The air in town smelled like roasted cherries. It was a scent more suited for mid-Summer like July or late spring, like May or Early June right before it becomes summer. But it was neither of those times. It was slap-fucked in the crack of late December. Frost laced all the windows like some persistent lover, clingy and elegant. The small town where Hattie lived was filled with shabby shacks of crumbling brick and banged...