Fiction | December 01, 1999

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Music of the Inner Lakes

For a long time I held my left hand in a fist. I held my right hand in a fist, too, as if to protect it from what had happened to the left that day in the Silver Lake store, when my cousin asked, “How thin to you want your turkey?” and I said, “I don’t know.” A careless gesture, bright blade spinning, the upper joints of my ring and pinkie fingers suddenly disconnected, suspended in air above the slicer, then dropping into a pool of blood.

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