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After the Fall by Kristine Kathryn Rusch To understand the entire story, we have to start at the beginning --and the story starts, ironically enough, with my very first memory. I am three, a small three, especially for a boy whose male relatives are all six-two and two- hundred and thirty pounds of solid muscle. If you look at pictures from the time (and there's no reason why you should), you'd see a wisp of a child, hair so blond it's almost white, skin so white it's almost pale. Even in photographs taken in full sunlight, I tended to disappear, almost as if I were a ghost instead of an actual living boy. The memory is mostly sensation: me on my back in the cold spring grass, a weight pressing down on my shoulder, hot drool dripping onto my face as I screamed and screamed and screamed. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the terror --the absolute conviction that this monster on top of me, teeth barred, claws scraping my fragile skin, is going to eat me --that the powerful jaws, so close to my face, are going to open, taking me inside with a single gulp. If you hear the family tell it, the truth is less dramatic: our new neighbors, Sissy and Arnold Kappel, are holding a barbecue in the back yard. My father has just mixed the drinks --his specialty even now -when Michael Kappel, the six-year-old |
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