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Weekly Contest #378
The church was awfully cold, and a mid-November gale howled incessantly outside. Rain splattered on the windows above, giving the impression of tiny shards of glass being poured from above. Small candles flickered at each pillar, and I began to worry a future gust would extinguish them all, drenching me in watery darkness. How did they get up there and light them all? Did the poor priest have to lug himself up a ladder every morning, matches in hand? He must be almost seventy by now – surely he had a young choir boy to scamper up there? This...
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