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Fiction from 11: Madge Bellamy


She came to see me the night she shot her lover. She stood on my porch in the rain, her big wet eyes staring plainly through the window, saying nothing. The water poured down over her and left a thick trail of black mascara on each of her ivory cheeks. Her hands hung limp at her sides, her fingers pale and wrinkled.

I opened the door.

“Come in,” I told her.

She waited in the hallway while I got towels from the closet. She said nothing when I...

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