Friday, October 10, 2014

West Virginia, 1987


Mark Sutz writes with stolen pens on diner napkins. He resides just around the corner.

West Virginia, 1987

The hunter pissed a hot stream of Tabasco into the bear’s mouth when he saw the animal, its paw trapped by the iron claw. Rain pulsed down in capsules thick like fingers. A deer stopped, licked the oozing sap from a tree. The hunter shouldered his gun, moved on gingerly. 

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