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Fiction

The Fox Hole

“Oh Great,” she yelled, “a fox hole!” and jumps right in. And just in time, too, because a shell immediately explodes a few feet away, throwing a clump of dirt on her head. She is bunched up like a mummy, but not too uncomfortable, a woman in the flush of youth squatting in a ready-made fox hole. Another shell explodes, this time even closer, and throws more dirt on her head. She is almost completely buried. There’s dirt on her nose, in her eyes, in her mouth. A soldier could walk right over her and not notice that here, just beneath his feet, is a pretty woman squatting in a fox hole. But then she realized that she had been sitting on something. Something sinewy, bunched up. Was it a root? A hand? A hand grenade?

Contributor

Linh Dinh

LINH DINH is the author of a collection of stories, Fake House (Seven Stories Press, 2000), and three chapbooks of poems. He is the editor and translator of Three Vietnamese Poets.

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The Brooklyn Rail

MARCH-APRIL 2002

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