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Mistryel Walker Seven truants stand on upturned trash cans in imminent danger of falling into the holly bush. They shriek, wrestle foot-long icicles from the gutter overhead, coats open, mittens sticking. Methodically they snap until a row of icicle stumps cling pointlessly to the overhang, until they are armed and dangerous little men, dripping a trail, delighting in their shiny weapons of after-class destruction. "Hey, where's my sword?" a red-cheeked stabber of snowmen later yells, his hand in his pocket fingers in a pocket-puddle. |
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Document last modified on: 04/01/2006