Friday, October 9, 2009


by Ari Collins

In my mourning dress and Daddy's ammo belts I hunted the wild woods. A terrorbird thundered over a ridge the third morning, cruel beak snapping, Daddy's machete lodged in one vestigial wing. He cocked his blue-crested head as if recognizing me and charged. I pulled the pin from my grenade and together we screamed.

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