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Weekly Contest #288
*This story includes subjects of gore, violence, and abstractions of suicide. Please note before reading. The wind kissed my arm like my Ma did on late summer evenings. Late summer evenings, like the ones where the moon was refracted in my window panes, or the ones when the horizon smiled with a pink dusted cheek. It was the kind of warm feeling that made you remember the cold. The sense of serenity I felt on those nights always prepared me for the sense of fear I knew I was fixing to have in my later years. Like when that big storm was comi...
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