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Weekly Contest #298
The house behind Michael still had the porch swing hanging in the corner; it was a netted material that had always scratched his skin when they were on it. The blanket Tailor kept there for him when he inevitably complained; sometimes about the itch, more often about the cold, was nowhere to be found. Tailor had tried to suggest they pick a new swing. One that was softer, more sheltered from the weather, and he had always refused. He liked having an excuse to lean in closer, to feel as though the world beyond that porch, beyond that swing ev...
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