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Weekly Contest #158
At the base of the house, at the place where the concrete foundation met the lush green lawn, Oliver was crouching like a gargoyle. His shoulders were hunched over, a scowl marred his brows, and if it hadn’t been for that damn awful lighting one would even be able to see the way his fingers were held, the first two digits outstretched, the remainder curled away. The hands themselves were long, elegant. A piano player's hands. Oliver had painted the fingernails of those hands sometime in the week because the chipped blotches of blue color r...
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