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Weekly Contest #214
Dear Anya, Your eyes were blue, weren’t they? The colour of a hundred uninterrupted summers at the lake, its shallow waters forever churning under the persistent, gleeful splashing of tiny feet at the water’s edge. Or maybe not. They were green, the colour of thousands of leaves bursting overhead silently, a rich emerald canopy so thick the sky couldn’t stick its sapphire head through, however hard it tried. Maybe they weren’t. I now realise that they were brown. You’ll have to excuse me: my memory is not what it used to be. 70 years have pa...
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