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Weekly Contest #366
Weave stared across the snow drifts expecting an eventful evening. Twenty-four years living like a sneak by kerosene lamps, his soul nourished by hatred, his heart deprived the consolations of age. He’d resisted as the sprawling factory stole his farm acres and polluted his valley. His scraggly beard had grown long and gray. Deep crow’s feet lined his clever brown eyes. . His golden years were nothing but rust until he found Detective Joe unconscious on the carpet in the old A frame all frost bit, lost in th...
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