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Snail Killer


Elizabeth Maua Taylor

He sat on the bench, his thick head stuck in his collar. He couldn’t turn but sensed me as I walked up the street by his lawn.

His beer he swilled and spilled, and he cursed at the shape of the can; then he wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty hand, the same hand he slapped her with.

She slowly walked toward the car, sunglasses to hide the bruise. “Where ya goin’?” he snapped.

“To buy snail killer,” she cringed.

I walked past their house, past the wet lawn, past the bench where he sat and he spat. The snails crawled out of the wet grass, with thick heads sticking out of their shells. They couldn't turn but they sensed me, and I stepped on them, not losing my stride…

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