Fiction | December 01, 2006
An Art
Stormy Stipe
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“We’ll hide here,” my sister Helen said, and pulled me onto a bed of pine straw under the fence at the edge of the ditch. We watched my mother drive slowly through the puddles of our driveway. … My older brother, Hal, had smeared ketchup on the floor of the front room, smudged a wad of his own dark hair and several strands of my sister’s along the edges, and run out the back door. He was hiding in the tractor-shed yard.
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