White Whale Review: An Online Literary Magazine Untitled Document
Isyemille Lara
Isyemille Lara is a bilingual writer of English and Spanish. Currently she resides in Mexico and works as a teacher, but she grew up all over the United States. Studying painting and also Latino Studies, her interest in writing has evolved to include an emphasis on intensity and simplicity. Currently she is focusing on short poems and a novel which involves adventures through sentence structure and far-away places. She is inspired by animals, travel, westerns and road movies, and people who write.

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Soliloquy for an Elephant

Isyemille Lara



The sun was mercury-filled as the clock struck eleven forty-five. The town, covered in sand and time, was busy and anxious, as it had for its entire history battled the heartburn of desert life with whiskey and promiscuity. Most days at this hour, people would just be getting on to the processes of the day. This day however, was frenetic; there was a taste of anticipation in the air that mixed with the smell of the sun’s blood and the dust of seclusion. Everyone was awake. No one was unprepared. It was as if the entire population already knew what had happened but had nothing better to do than repeat time instead of moving on to new business. And it was a repetition; the same thing had been going on every day at the same time. Everyone in the town lived for this sameness. It would have been impossible to change anything about this sameness because then it would not have been “it” anymore. It would have been something else, and

the concept of changing the letters from i and t to other characters was impossible to grasp.

The sun was mercury-filled and it lay on the ground like a fat man. At the end of the street there was a small, sturdy girl. She was radiant like light and had divination to let her see through air. Her name was Ramona and she had spider eyes, eggs in her head. Ramona was strong and sturdy and small. She had stature, she was unborn, and her eyes slanted on her face, reminiscent of Olmecs and Manchurians. She was a very good gunslinger. Ramona had to be a good gunslinger—she had been repeating this day since the first day she had started to repeat it. It would have been preposterous to think that she suddenly could not carry out her function because this would not be the same thing that had happened all those other days with the mercury-sun and the heartburn of whiskey and the fat-man stealth of the sand.

The shoot-out would begin at twelve noon. Everyone in the town knew this, not because they had remained in a state of perpetual repetition but because it was common sense. The repetition was

what made them sane. The repetition made it so they too could understand the art of gun-slinging and sundial time. The clock was at eleven fifty-five now; there was only five minutes until the Apocalypse, five minutes until the barrel of the gun of the girl would unleash a bullet into the heart of another unfortunate being. Somehow the dust had settled in a way that started to produce heavy sneezing and pains in the entrails of many of those who were lining up in the street to witness the bravado of the bullets blazing. Somehow the people did not notice the dust, even though the patterns and fractals were neon and evident, poisoning the air like fall-out in winter. These souls were too wrapped up in time to forego any caution; their lungs bled like gums, their throats began to combust spontaneously, making it difficult to laugh and breathe. Some people began falling over. Others, understanding that it was the dust that had been the culprit, took refuge under the shade. These people coughed blood, heavy with iron, but withstood the burn from the lack of innards in order to witness the shoot-out.


The clock read eleven fifty-nine.


Sometimes, when the soul is bent on reincarnation, it seems that nothing can straighten it out. She had an elephant. The elephant’s name was Milificent. This elephant was large, brown, covered in barnacles and trees. Her feet were as large as light, dancing freely as she left and standing firmly when her consciousness required. This elephant was large, brown, and knew how to dance. Milificent liked dancing, as children like oranges, “as I like you,” said the girl who had the elephant. The girl, who had the elephant that was large and brown and named Milificent, lived in a town covered in dust. This town had no time, but time was all it had because it was built on top of a very ancient clock created by very ancient men. These men found it difficult to stay on top of things so they built a large clock. Funny, they didn’t know that one day this clock would be able to withstand the joy of a girl and her elephant named Milificent. These men knew about Reincarnation because they had seen original carnations and knew how the petals drew themselves in at night. Reincarnation is the belief that the carnations you pick for someone

you fancy will stay alive forever, due to the love in the hearts of the ancient men.

The elephant Milificent and the girl lived in the dust town, the one notable for gun slinging and light. Their friendship was built on the true love they had for one another, beast and man, behemoth and miniscule, elephant and girl. They were inseparable. They liked mambo and sleep, both having rhythms reminiscent of palm trees.

One afternoon as Milificent went riding through town, she was shot down by the bullet of a fight between someone who had never been seen in the town before, and she who had been born at the correct time allotted. The elephant began to cry, not because of the pain or the end of life, but because it knew that nothing would ever matter again, that the girl would be upset, and that it would be very cold in death.

The girl was very sad. She was sad and young, with eyes made of wool, surrounded by skin that was gentle and that washed itself with tears of salt and broken bones. The girl, who had the elephant that was brown, decided right there on the

pavement where Milificent’s blood had been thrown into a puddle, that she would learn how to sling a gun so that she would always understand the logarithms associated with murder. She knew at that moment that she should not have relied on the prophesies of those ancient men, that all she could count on was herself, and that elephants never walk fast enough when the bullets are blazing.


The town was dusty and warm and she could never shake the dust out of her hair.



You'd know your days were numbered when they walked in the door. Their hands were hard-worked with rings on every finger. The ostrich and the duck: never before had the wings of love swept so many other lives away. It was the ostrich that could not account for his actions, it was the duck that was soft and held him at night. Together, they were a full being and apart they were disjointed but happy.

Their plight had started in the dusty city. They were outlaws, moving only at the dead center of day so as to be as secretive as possible. The ostrich was tall and resolute, with eyelash daggers and a beak nose. He had pride under his skin and hands that were bony and strong. These hands had felt hard. These hands had the power to make women wilt and men walk away. These hands, these bird hands, held tears and children as if to make sure they would never be broken. His crime was unknown to anyone except him; not even his duck bride knew why they kept running. He was silent, vigorous at making love and equally unabridged in all his endeavors. The duck was smaller, rounder, louder than her counterpart. She had bejeweled fingers; rubies and emeralds dripped from her eyes when she cried and she walked exactly like her title suggested. They were both extremely patient with the world, but vicious with life. They were equally dangerous and separate at the same time. Their temper towards each other was enough to make time go further than it should. His glamour and her honesty made their murderous intentions kind despite the intricacy associated with those who end lives. They were killers, cut throat and merciless,

disenchanted but secure.

The weapon of choice for the ostrich was his stiletto. With it, he could kill violently. He had never been fond of the revolver, as it made the lack of opposable thumbs much more apparent. Clubs were too messy, dynamite too loud. He was polite and meticulous, assailing just as the clock struck the hour of his birth every day. He was able to maneuver himself so he never saw the whites of the eyes of his victims. Once they fell, he would cover them in dust and light, wondering what they must have thought about when they had woken up that morning. The ostrich was an excellent salesman of socialism and fair-play. He did not kill because he wanted to; it was just one of those things that had to be done. He was not unable to love; moreover he was an excellent friend to those who knew him.

The duck, on the other hand, was an excellent marksman and patient with those around her. She knew how the bullets could slice through flesh like rain on coals. She took the circumference seriously. She loved the thickness of blood when the last gasp of air escaped her victim’s lungs—full of the life that was cut short by her wicked hand. She could reload

the revolver faster than most other creatures on earth could blink; this came in handy during the days she was alone before encountering the ostrich. In those days, the duck would hide in the shadows of the fat-man noon day heat, living off the light of her dreams and stealing as much as her pockets and wits could carry. If she wanted you dead, it would be so. She was ferociously kind but apart. Her love for others was measured only by her patience.


The ostrich was the only one she had bothered to spend it on.



His voice had no honor. Inside of him was a speed that could not be equated with science or any other numeration. Quick Tongue Tai was a man that sped through life and love as if he did not understand the rate at which he was going. He didn’t need to. The ancient clock that lay beneath his feet ticked the seconds away as if they were fleeting moments. For Quick Tongue Tai, these seconds lasted eons. The barrel of his gun and the wisdom of his own relation to it made it so he could

float effortlessly through the town of dust and shine. He wandered through the town, unknown by any who had ever lived there, and almost unremembered by those who happened to cross his path. He could not remember the last time he had said anything out loud. However he knew that when and if he did, there would be no way of stopping him. Inside the hole in his face was movement, percussion, dreams.

He was wicked.

He was unfearful of all things except land mines and mimes. He did not understand how the ground could explode with the pressure of weight and hated the idea of having no voice. Quick Tongue Tai was the fastest, most merciless, and downright vulgar gunslinger in these parts of the land. If you heard his voice, you had been defeated. Checkmate; once his tongue had reached the hard palate, his fingers had likewise pulled the trigger, sending his foes into a darkness that was incapable of returning to light. His charm was what made him so conniving. Making women swoon with his humor and light and men jealous of their own desires, Quick Tongue Tai was careful in choosing his victims.

He was in the dusty town only to prepare for a battle that was not a long way off. It had been scheduled for him since birth and the appointment was only a day away. He was memorizing a soliloquy at the saloon, drinking calm and smooth malt when he realized that he had just fallen in love. There was a short, straight woman at the end of the bar dressed in white and red like a Mexican playground, smoking a cigarette that seemed to be attached to the end of her fingers. He saw musical notes in the cloud of smoke; ACME signs of stars and yellow danced in his head as he sat there stone-cold and mute. He had never had the sensation of levitation before and he was just about to stand up and float over when he noticed her revolver pointed at him from underneath the table. An invitation to love, a beckoning to pull the trigger, he was confused and for the first time in his life completely stagnant. The idea of motion and voice had exited his body and Quick Tongue Tai had no idea what to do. His eyes moved over the scene like a lens—he saw the heavy deep clock on the wall and noticed that it was shortly before noon—the witching hour was upon him and it was funny because of the distance from the town to the

equator. He knew the girl was there for a reason and he knew that it had something to do with the dust outside and the clock on the wall. He stood and decided that the time that was kept beautiful enveloped by the ancient men was a mistake and that he had forgotten to set his own watch back an hour. This was not the right day for him to be in this town, but he knew that it could have never have happened any other way.


He stood with hard-blank and at once knew what he had to do.



What kind of town had the capacity to study the palpitations of the heart along with the circumference of an ideal summer day? It was a city lost unto itself. Growing old day by day, it engaged in warfare of different kinds. The whores battled during the night like veteran foot soldiers or glamorous Russian spies. They were strong and merciless. The patrons of the saloon were an infantry. Drumming in place, there was no mention

of armistice or sabotage. Their sole purpose was to watch and destroy the enemy. The bartender, one of the ancient men, was not only proprietor of the saloon, but also a five-star general in the town that battled the sun and dust.

“He will spill your blood on the streets of your childhood.”

This was the statement most easily recognizable in the town of the sand and fat sun. Everyone who lived there, young and old alike knew the reference point. The army of the whores and the drunkards and the five-star general could only anticipate things if they were a specific color. The five-star was old and grey. He had a spark in his eyes—orbs that were chocolate with navy blue never-ending edges. He was wise, and dark, and strong. He knew what it meant to go out in the sun and work in the field. He knew what the symbols meant when words were spoken. His love for his own was untranslatable and he knew what it meant to be true.

His daughter had owned an elephant when she was young, before the hours had chained her face to the outside world. His daughter had created a foe out of a man who could not speak without murder.

Only the general knew what destiny was in store for his daughter but was unable to tell her because of the rules of fate and prophesy. All he could do was help train her when she was young so that her ruthless qualities could get her through life. The five-star had created a beautiful monster. His daughter trained in the saloon under his strict supervision, killing small insects and reptiles to practice her gun slinging arts. The perfection of his control was almost too great. He was not only the one person who knew the exact point of inebriation for all living things, but he held honor around him like a perfume and had not changed his conviction for one second in his whole life. The general’s discipline with his daughter was the only way he could prevent his heart from breaking.

Today was the day that his daughter would die. He knew this to be true as he knew the circumference of the sun and of the ancient clock upon which the sandy town was built. He was saddened because of the waste it would create—within her was a spark that could be used to befriend elephants and ducks and criminality. The saloon where he spent his days was quiet—it seemed to understand the chemicals that escaped

the general’s head as he breathed in and out. All of the patrons, militant and somber, waited patiently to be given the opportunity to grieve.

There was nothing escaping the inevitability of the course that had to be taken. His daughter, murderess and champion of the pachyderm, was as good as dead, and he had known this since she was born. The ancient men could only combine time in one specific way to form one specific outcome. There was only one chemical formula; the valence, though sorrowful, was balanced and complete.


Once she was dead, nothing would be created again.



As Ramona and Quick Tongue Tai faced each other, they both smiled and sighed and sobbed quietly. They understood that their love was forceful and perfect but the requirements of time and mathematics were much more sensual. It was not the love of lovers but simply a respect so beautiful, it appeared to encompass them both in a

light that could not be penetrated by the dust of the town.

They enjoyed the time they had left, only minutes, by drinking a whiskey together in the smallest corner of the saloon. The bartender, father of Ramona and as old as the prehistoric red-finned sharks of the Far East, brought out two glasses, sweating and tired and fat. They were filled with amber liquid that had been invented before the ancients had been able to record time or make perfect circles with chalk. The two opposite forces felt blessed to have enough time to experience a few more moments of pure joy before facing the violence that had been laid out for them before their creation, before creation was a noun.

Both had rested their weapons on the table now holding their drinks. Their guns were shiny and dark, reflecting the whiskey on the surface of the smooth polished metal. Firepower has been necessary since the dawn of man’s time in order to create and simplify mass and energy. The habit of man had been, up to this point, to create a harness for such a chemetic form, whether it be the walls of a gun or something more outlandish, such as a rocket ship!

Ramona’s pistol was from a market in Marrakesh purchased by a wayward sea boat captain who, after so many years in love with all things nautical, had come to the desert to rest his legs and dry his hair. The moss had finally stopped growing. The pistol was shiny and dark, like Ramona and her eyes. It had a remarkable personality and could stay awake for hours, methodically wondering what the best time to strike would be. The pistol, though Afrikan, had the heart of a New World being. Ramona maintained the chamber clear of grime and made her own bullets out of teeth and dust that came from outer space. She was able to forge transient metals in order to make these bullets imperceptible and fatal.

The revolver that belonged to Quick Tongue Tai was neon yellow. It, like the owner, had no voice and this made the weapon that much more deadly. Quick Tongue had won the gun in a duel several years prior, knowing that he would need to preserve the integrity of the gun in order to prepare it for the predestined battle. While the revolver itself was mute, it too understood the properties of time and knew full well that today was not a red-letter day. The color of the revolver matched its

passive nature. While Quick Tongue was a rogue, his weapon did not share the sentiments necessary for bloodshed. Still, the revolver had up to this point never wavered and wondered if it would be able to do so today. The revolver held responsibility above morality and thus had claimed the lives of so many, both those who had sinned and the innocent, since it had been paired with the human who also did not speak.


The killers continued to drink from the glasses that sweat; they stared outside, through a dusty window at the sun that was sleeping on the dirt and wondered if their bullets would be able to wake it up.



The city that was lost to dust and time and metal was surrounded on all sides by open desert. One could walk for hours and days in any direction without chance of seeing anything except minerals and the energy that had escaped the sun's belly. At night, the land that surrounded the town looked

lunar and remote. There was no apology sent by a god to break the silence of the repetition of the landscape. The desert was white and blue and it smelled like salt and mathematic code. Only smaller organisms came to dwell here under the soft blanket of rays that could not be seen. There was for many eons no apparent community to be studied in this setting. The remoteness of the desert lent itself to poems of solitude written by the wind on the sand and read only by the sun and the moon, who were unable to converse about the poetry because of their schedules. Only in the southern corners of the desert was there any semblance of civilization and the sun kept this part of the desert the warmest.

To the south lay dark shadows that had evolved before any cities had been created in this desert. Those who lived in the south were fierce, feasting on their own beliefs by irrigating the desert to create colors never seen before. They had been warriors for centuries and did not need any tools to keep time in check. Once, years before the city had been built, a group of the southern dark warriors came across some of the original ancient men who were building giant gears to bury under the dull sand. Though they did not believe each other’s

stories about gods or energy, they were able to speak each other’s language.

Both were peaceful and knew the dangers of living under the sun’s love. The dark warriors, stoic but sincere, left the secrets of irrigation with the ancient men who had for the first time since laying claim to the desert, come across something that had not been predicted. These dark warriors wore plumes in their hair and kept jewellery in their teeth because they needed to impress the minerals they ingested to stay alive. They had lived in houses made of sand until they realized that they could make mud from the juice of a cactus and had since then ceased to be pilgrims and began to raise crops to pay tribute to their gods.

Other than these dark warriors and ancient men, the only other fauna in this section of the desert were the birds. Long ago a great battle had been fought between the birds and the reptiles to see who would be the keepers of these great sands. Both armies fought dirty and were insincere but the birds had won because the reptiles did not believe in using metal weapons. Using only the pull from the Earth along with other celestial giants, the reptiles

believed they could bend gravity so that the birds would not be able to take flight. The birds on the other hand, learned to move metals in order to create knives and guns. Their tribe consisted of many different species. From pelican to crow, this avian gang had kept the desert free of any other ambulating creature for centuries until the arrival of the time-keeping men. The most astonishing sight ever noted in those times was the legend of a duck and an ostrich that fought with anyone that stood in their way with steel and frenzy and stealth.


It was never known for sure whether this fairy tale was true.



The weight of the skin of an elephant can be measured only in metrics. This volumaic beast has been a symbol of good luck and pride for thousands of years by all the cultures known to exist on the planet, flora and fauna alike. There was an elephant that had once lived in the town named after a flower in the shape of a bell that had the power to help

people sleep and dream in specific colors. This town had no flowers of this kind to speak of and could, for the most part, only grow cacti and palms. No one knew why the city had been named after this tropical plant just as no one knew where the elephant had come from.

The elephant was very large and always wore the color brown, even at parties. The elephant lived on the farthest eastern block of the town, next to the saloon in a hut that had been made by a dark and powerful indian who felt the need to leave one day in search of the sea. Inside the elephant's hut, one could find a hat stand with many hats made out of mud and straw that the elephant used to keep cool and up with the times. Some of them had flumes. There was a shelf with books from all around the world, since the elephant was a lover of words and could never resist the urge to learn a new language. The hut was square with a large mat where the elephant slept at night and during the hottest part of the day. The elephant's diet consisted of plantains, sugar cane, and beet root. On holidays, she ate peanuts. There was a garden behind the hut where wild cactus flowers bloomed which attracted yellow butterflies that have been

mentioned by sacred writers throughout the history of the written word. The elephant was a lover of dance, especially if it involved music with the trumpet and the drum. The elephant had remained friendless until she met a girl on a Sunday at dusk while the town led a festival of lights to commemorate the first crop of corn ever harvested. The desert was not known for its rich soil or irrigation so when the first farmers were able to create growth out of sand and sunlight, the entire town felt the charge in the Earth's ability to create and their own impact on the ground.

No sooner had the elephant and the girl become friends that the clock, which had been created by a tribe of ancients, was completed and buried beneath the town. This clock had never sat right. It was crooked and therefore its exactitude for measuring time was off by half of one second. This amount of time, though small, was enough to multiply and eventually change the course of the history of the town.

The girl and the elephant became immediate friends, suspicious only of the luck that had brought them together and were prepared to remain friends

until one of them left town or died. Neither one knew how much their friendship mattered to the success of the small, dusty, iron-ridden town where they lived. The elephant was positive she could make up for the mistake in time by coming to terms with fate. Fate, after all, never changes. But no matter how hard she tried, the brown musical elephant could never bring herself to tell the girl what was to be. One day, even though the clock was wrong, and although the young girl was not old enough to separate grief from anger, the elephant fell by the saloon just outside her hut, from a bullet that sliced through the air without pause or hesitation.


Though the elephant was dying, she feared only for her best friend whose tears would continuously burn the streets like meteors.



The pianola was dusty and weak. Suffering from arthritis, the instrument played only when inebriated enough and even then, its sound was

anemic and unenergetic. At the corner of the saloon sat two lovers drinking whiskey and staring at the clock on the wall. The pianola was on the other side of the saloon, facing a wall so that its player was always at risk of being shot or beaten without prior knowledge. The ragtime and mambos, a specialty of the city, were always played at double the speed so as not to increase the dangers for those creating the sound. Though fights involving money and women were common, the saloon was for the most part a peaceful place, used by all to escape the rays of the sun and charcoal it created on the soil.

The riffraff that made up the clientele of the saloon were devout card players and all of them knew how to dance. The bar was deeply wooden, ancient, long and dark like a boa constrictor and just as strong. Behind it, the proprietor would draw malt from the tap that was deep yellow ochre and could make an average Sunday into a wedding or a funeral, depending on how much was consumed. Bottles of foreign spirits lined the mirrored back wall, some colors of Persian jewelry and others that smelled like mud or paste. Some of the bottles were very dusty. The dust of the town was inescapable and often left wives widows and children as

orphans. The saloon was located in the very center of the town, next to the post office and a lottery stand. There was no church. The only object in the city resembling a temple was the giant round clock that lay beneath the sand. The clock was circular, made out of obsidian for strength and rubies to demonstrate charisma and style. Why the emphasis on appearance? No one understood, since the machine had never seen the light of day.

To prevent the sand from sinking into the cracks on the clock's face and disturbing the massive gears at work, the men who had designed and built the clock had woven a blanket of cactus flower petals to lay between the clock and the sand that made up the town floor. This created the sensation of levitation among the inhabitants, so much so that some came to believe that the law of gravity was slowly being broken. On Tuesdays, the saloon had live cabaret. This was typically the night when the most liquor was sold and the most beautiful women of the town would come, dressed like foreign actresses to entice the men in order to steal their lottery tickets. The saloon welcomed everyone, from the very young who would gamble and play billiards but drank only sarsaparilla, to the ancient

men who had been in the town much longer than anyone could recall. The pianola was used to its full capacity on these nights, bringing out the nostalgia of ragtime from the North and mambo from the East. Everyone would come together and shame was left at the door. The honesty of the saloon made the risk of violence and heartbreak worth the trouble because everyone understood the importance of being faithful.

Today, however, the saloon was quiet as the general wiped the boa constrictor bar meticulously while the young friends in the corner drank their sweaty whiskey and started at the clock on the wall. The air was lazy and felt like hay. The sound of fate, soft and dark like moss, kept the saloon encapsulated and inert. No one said anything; there was not anything left to say.


Outside, the sun was hot and direct and the pianola groaned carefully as the dust and heat kept the saloon from opening its doors.



The clock on the door read eleven fifty-nine. The scorching egg-sun in the sky spilled the runny yolk of x-rays and gamma-rays and sting-rays onto the ground with such passive aggression that oftentimes there were quarrels between it and its celestial neighbors. Interpreting this passion often required dark glasses and a large hat.

In this town of dust and light, today was the first day that would matter because today was the day of the last shoot out. Two gunslingers had slowly been drinking whiskey inside the saloon. One was opaque red and white, small in stature, with obsidian hair and a heart so stony, nursery rhymes had been written about her. She was radiant like light and had divination to let her see through air. The other was levitating and silent. He wore a hat with a green ribbon and a suit of dark gray leather and silk. His pistol was neon-lemon and he had never fallen in love until this hour had come. He was a man that sped through life and love as if he did not understand the rate at which he was going.

Everyone had gathered outside to see the shoot out and the clock was one minute away from

making a new hole in the ground. The general, spiritual but non-religious, closed the doors to the saloon for the last time and sat down under a tree to weep. The ostrich and his duck bride, by this time divorced but still the most dangerous duo this side of the Mississippi, held hands and put their weapons down as if to commemorate the moment forever. Even the elephant returned, a ghost to witness the murder of innocence at noon. Unable to make any affect on the outcome of the shoot out, Milificent roared melodically, like a trumpet at a funeral in New Orleans.

Ramona stood twenty feet away from Quick Tongue Tai. They gave off no shadows on the dusty, gamma-ray floor because the sun was directly overhead. Her gun was in its holster, cradled by her hip and ready to strike. For a moment, she remembered what it had been like to love because her enemy had tears in his eyes, mourning her and his life. Quick Tongue could still not speak. His love for Ramona could only be expressed by pulling the trigger. He knew the town stood, watching the prediction of the ancient men take place. The dust began to dissipate and it was suddenly easier to see. All of the inhabitants of the town had stopped

coughing. They were ready and resolute, some were already dressed for the funeral. Others had thrown gardenias into the street as a sign of respect for those in the duel. Sweat poured out of the gunslingers, combusting and making them appear nuclear. Ramona spoke, “Some fun, eh kid?” Tai returned, but before the sound reached the onlookers, they had both fired into the opposite direction, at each other.

By the time the smoke had cleared, no one could be sure of who had fired first, of who had fallen and who had remained upright, if at all. Neither one of them was ever seen again. With the completion of the prediction, the weather, satellites and setting of the desert town changed so as to eliminate the chance of another sunburn or case of heartburn from the dust in the air.


The town was never sunny again.




Copyright© Isyemille Lara. White Whale Review, issue 2.2

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