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July 26, 2005

The Eschatologist: Training

I could see my clan cheering me silently, fists pumping, as I made my virginal run.

No one notices children. I danced and crawled around oblivious shoppers and peddlers, in and out of garish multicolored tents hocking metallic trinkets, under and between carts with apples, dates, mangos, sweetmeats, and every other possible delight. My eyes were wide, my pockets wider.

The mark was fourteen cubits away, ten, then two. I hid behind the robes of a fat moneychanger, spit flying from him in fevered negotiation over a goat.

I leaned in, quietly, ready to dart.

She turned and winked, smiling.

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