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WRITING BY
MAUREEN AITKEN
Rigs like metal pelicans slurped oil from bone-dry Texas flatlands. Ten Cadillacs shoved nose first into the ground, tilting eastward. In New Mexico, my father stopped the car under a boulder hanging so impossibly over a cliff that it appeared to be in the first stages of falling straight onto the road, and now onto us.
From Maureen Aitken's short story, The Family Trip
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