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Weekly Contest #17
A still, yellow-hued candle sat in the freshly cleaned window. Its panes framed a view of cut down cornfields that grabbed the horizon by the throat. If you were to step out of the patched screen door and down the grayed cobble steps you would freeze clear to the bone as the wind sang a wind tune of frostbite. Little Beth was startled by the melody and slammed the door on the Wilson house. “Annabeth please sit at the table,'' her mother’s sweet, smooth voice rang down the hall. Little Beth kicked off her boots and through her swin...
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