Ask the Author: Cager Klarxon
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Cager Klarxon
We spent the humid night sharing a single bottle of warm Ale-8, his knuckles always brushing mine when he passed it over, our shoulders pressed together in the tall grass next to that ribcage of a barn. It wasn't until he started calmly pulling the fangs from a still-writhing snake that he told me, in his usual flat voice, that the thing his brothers strung up inside wasn't a deer, and that it had been begging them to stop in a voice that sounded exactly like his.
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