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