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Weekly Contest #80
The old rickety bus was only about twenty or so years younger than myself. It creaked and groaned almost as much as I did. People only rode the bus if they couldn't afford the train and didn't mind the dismal view. But there were a few of us, Franz, Oskar, and myself, who rode the bus to remember. Like a silent language, we spoke without speaking of those hard days. We understood as few could, that some pain needed to be remembered.Franz only rode the bus on Tuesdays and Oskar was currently down in Amsterdam visiting family, so I found mysel...
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