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Unformatted text preview: irl was gone. The night was high and full of the light of the moon. They stood three stories above the flags below. Michael swung the hammer one more time, one last fine blow that caught Lasher on the side of his head and sent him over the edge of the roof. The body hurtled downward, no scream escaping from it, the head striking the flags with full force. Michael at once climbed over the small railing. He jabbed the ham- mer into his belt, and, grabbing hold of the iron trellis with both hands, moved down it, half falling, half tumbling through the vines and the thick banana trees, and letting the stalks cushion him as he hit the earth below. The thing lay on the garden path, a sprawling body of gangly arms and legs and flowing black hair. It was dead. Its blue eyes stared up into the night sky, its mouth agape. Michael went down on his knees beside it, and slammed the ham- mer down again and again on it, this time the hammer end, shattering and pounding the bones of the forehead, the bones of the c...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10