Fiction | April 24, 2018

The man we called Great Uncle Kimmy lived three quarters of his life alone in a cabin perched on a mountainside so steep that if you stepped wrong in anger or in drink you’d wind up in the creek bed deep at the bottom of the holler. There lay the remains (he said) of a Model A Ford, a hundred-year-old still, and two commercial-grade highway lawnmowers. If you wound up down there, you’d never be found, but it wouldn’t matter because you’d be dead. No one and nothing (he said) ever went down into the bottom of that holler besides the things meant to by nature, and nothing not meant to go there by nature ever came out.

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