If Walls Could Talk

Rivulets. Rain and blood. Shattered chalkboard littering the playground. Did it spin or glide once the mob, intent on defenestrating something, tossed anything they could from the third floor. How did they yank it from the wall? How long did it take to break out the window to get it to fit? The slate centurion, generations of chalk scratched across its surface, reduced to elemental components, now fit for make-shift knives or spears, better suited for the education of the mean streets.

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