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Emily O’Brien’s mouth dropped open, as her eyes magnified. “Wha’ … what … wha’ …? But what poison do you use? That’s all I wanna know?” “Ah, but I don’t use poison—Emily—no, I use love.” Emily O’Brien’s brows furrowed together in serious consternation. “What? You can’t be serious, love? You mean you love the ants?” Betty Ross smiled laconically and sipped her coffee. “Yes, I guess you could say that, although respect might be a better word.” “Love …? Respect—but they’re only ants—they’re insects.” “They are living beings, Emily.” Emily O’Brien stood up uneasily. She felt she was talking to a crazy woman; either that or a witch. She had just seen a movie about witches and Emily O’Brien whose I.Q. was only a point or two above a baloney sandwich, believed whatever she saw on the big screen, especially if there were any big-name stars in the picture. She bid her neighbor a hasty farewell and hurried out the back door; lighting her cigarette almost before the screen door slapped shut and inhaling on it greedily, as she hurried towards her home and safety.

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The Fine Line Issue 3  

The Fine Line presents its third compilation of art, fiction and poetry by contributors Francis Raven, Michael Young, Dorothee Lang, Raj Sha...

The Fine Line Issue 3  

The Fine Line presents its third compilation of art, fiction and poetry by contributors Francis Raven, Michael Young, Dorothee Lang, Raj Sha...

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