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Tag Archives: Winter 1999

“The Bridesmaid,” by Bonnie Jo Campbell

I felt no fear, though my legs were thin, hardly bigger than the barrel of the gun, and my arms were strained. I felt no fear at the prospect of shooting this man, of watching his body crumple, then dragging the corpse inside, quickly so the heat didn’t escape from the house.

“Milt and Moose,” by Eileen Pollack

The dentist held out his hands, which trembled in the sharp autumn air. He was tall, silver haired, with a neck curved from years of bending over his patients. He looked like one of his instruments — the curved mirror, or the explorer, with its gently hooked tip.