The Chainsaw BearsErin Elizabeth Smith
The chainsaw bears would do anything to not be bears – put their cubs on clearance, let teenagers etch into their forearms, pocketknives tonguing the gnarled flesh. If only they could be rainbow trout or willow trees, a cool glass of tea sweating on a restaurant bench. The ice that jangles in its cup like stuffed bells, the clapper a tongue gone dumb in the dark cave of its mouth.
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