When I was six I stepped on a beetle, crushing its back half. I examined the twitching remainder. No bones. I asked my mother about it. "Its armor holds it up," she said. I think about that now when we fight, about that squirming bug, half-alive in a shell that couldn't save it.
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It’s really fine. I am surprised at how such a short story can make a person have such different and strong reactions. I love them all!
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