Sunday, November 22, 2009


by Jackson Ferrell

Deborah looks like hell. A lizard person treats her wounds, rubbing her lacerated skin with ointment. The lizards, with their scales and nictating membrane, can shrug off a sandstorm easily, but we weren’t built for their world.

God, she looks fragile. I step outside to light a cigarette-- while the wind will still let me.

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