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Weekly Contest #98
The girl entered the dim little room with an expression of contempt on her face. She was young yet, barely older than ten, with plump, rosy cheeks and bright eyes. Rather, they would be bright, if not for the fact that the dim little room was a therapist's office, and she was glaring at the man himself. She sat down on the soft, beige chair that faced him, and didn't break eye contact as he studied her. "What's your name, dear?" He cooed, having a way of twisting words so that they fit neatly into a child's brain after nearly twenty year...
There is a young man who sits in the clover field as the sun sets in January. They say that he has no place to be. They say he has nothing to do but think, and that's where his goes. Not many know why, but they know what he has faced. They say that he will come back to the field every day until he is old and gray, they say he looks like his father, that they wonder where his sister is, that they miss his mother terribly. Sometimes, if they are far enough away from the boy, out of earshot by more than ten feet, and without looking at him...
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