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The Justin

One thing to remember about any given swampy river: there are crocodiles.

Except in the afterlife there weren’t, which made sense: their chief function (in human perception) was largely abrogated. Denied symbiosis, the white plovers wheeled and dove and annoyed the Justin, who was trying to spar.

“Concentrate,” hissed Stevie, reed low and steady.

“I don’t want bird poopy on my soul!” the Justin protested.

“Just concentrate on your time signature. Soon enough you’ll have to deal with more than birds!”

Not far down the river, ready to prove them right, the crocohippolion lurked; and the plovers went nowhere near her.

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