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On the road built to go nowhere, the entrances loop around to exits. Travel never waivers– rarely crowded; sometimes slowed by white outs, like the sudden wide splotch of paint on the face of the stone bridge abutment. At Belle-Isle High, they were practicing archery; everyone except Diana. She was something else. He couldn’t resist. All he saw flashed white - her smile, his lies - the zero to 90mph into the bridge: bull’s eye.

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submitted at 12:04pm

22 April 2009