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Weekly Contest #329
Eleven forty pm, and the new woman hadn’t once looked up from the blush of peaches rolling along the conveyor belt in an endless tide. Or perhaps she had, and Dandy hadn’t noticed—his own scrutiny of damaged product was sketchy, and his gritty, worn-out eyes were struggling to focus. Because Hope Peaches’ workflow was automated, there was little need for real beating hearts, but the old woman who owned the company was cynical about robotics and insisted that a few “proper” people be included in the inspection process. Occasionally, a peach ...
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