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Weekly Contest #39
When I was little, my father would carry me on his broad shoulders in the backyard just after the sun had set. Now, my father was a very big man--”stocky” or “burly” as he would sometimes say--so much so that when the dying light would cast our shadows around the yard, it made us look like mountains. Our little slice of fenced-in land became our great outdoors, and we would talk about all kinds of things; the weather, how big I was getting, how he was a “mountain of a man” but that I made all of his hair fall out. But most of all, we would t...
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