An excerpt from Esperanza’s story

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For the stone throwers and the sword wielders are as primitive as their ancestors and the ancestors of their ancestors, toiling in seas of blood and upon rolling hills of flesh to remain alive, to survive, which is their ultimate state-of-being, their highest conceivable honor, an achievement, but ultimately their most enduring failure. Man is a mortal creature; this is one of the few things we can attest to knowing. So while the stone throwers and the sword wielders ache and kill and burn the people of the world as well as the world itself, the thinking men resurrect the spirits that came before and also failed, the spirits with blood on their shadow-hands and in the ducts of their eyes, blood in the hair and caked upon their faces, blood forever adrift in their guts, for they as killers and hunters were largely unable to translate into language the narrative of those innumerable hunts and kills, their bloody and authentic histories, their failures, and so those spirits must now rely on a spare population of posterity to conjure them back into the realm of the living so as to pass on their bequests to equally indifferent hunters and killers and the few enlightened souls who must transcribe for them.

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