The Distant Legend
The blood on your right hand has dried into a rust-colored crust. You look at it now, in the gray light of the kitchen, and you think it looks like dirt. Like the soil from the garden where you used to bury the good tomatoes. Your fingers are stiff. The knuckles are swollen, permanent knots of bone and skin that no longer bend as they used to. You hold the heavy iron skillet. It is cold. It is...
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