Genevieve’s liver wandered at night, never far, just down the road, into this house or that, crawling through a window or down a chimney, nibbling on whomever, on Sarah Cunningham after her asshole terrier tore up the rhododendrons, on Amy Vanderwall when her shit kid dinged the mailbox, and each morning, clean as godliness, a trail of bile baked on the sidewalk, glistening with distilled bits of toenail and skin, little signs of progress, Genevieve always upon the porch, rubbing her side just below the rib, waving to this neighbor or that. Another beautiful day.
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D. E. Hardy’s work has appeared in Clockhouse Magazine (Pushcart Nomination), The Esthetic Apostle, and The Fault Zone. She is a fiction editor for Chestnut Review and lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.