Shawn P. McCarthy
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“Wind against the goggles. Cool night air against her cheeks. She roars on into the night, hissing and clanking and smoking. She heads toward the glow of the big city, with sparks trailing behind her like dying moths.”
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“Behind her, cotton sheets lay rumpled atop an unmade bed—the remains of an empty white canvas upon which she had intended to paint the landscape of home. And love. And family.
But no such masterpiece exists”
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But no such masterpiece exists”
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