shot glass
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"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Tobey Hiller


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Dying Giant

He lay, ancient and babyish, on the ground, his pointed beard wrapped around his striped top hat so its shadow concealed the fact that he was wearing mascara. Out of the cave of his chest a trophy grizzly bear's head jutted. His wings-and he had once had giant ones-had turned to spiderweb transparency, and nobody knew where his autobiography had gone. A mountain of greasy stomach steamed gently in the breeze, and from his vest pockets dangled his trinkets, all dark limbs and hooded faces. One blue eye looked toward sky; the red eye dripped rust. He was so big the cavalry were measuring him to see if he'd fit in the Grand Canyon, but since a vulture missile already loomed on the eastern horizon, they decided not to bother and went back to their poker game. His trinkets moaned.