His AncestorMichael Gushue
In Conrad’s tribe they lean palm fronds against sticks lashed together. The hot sky overturns on Conrad’s head like a bathtub of spit. Frogs are plentiful, better than fish-eating spiders. No hair to be scraped off. Conrad misses the time they caught an agouti. Those were good times. When strangers enter the clearing, it’s Conrad’s job to chase them away with stones and howls and dried dung. It’s a custom, like cowering at night. The spring floods trigger an economic downturn. Every god in the world is pissed at Conrad. He didn’t scar himself as much as he should have. They bury him in a rib cage woven out of willow branches.
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