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Weekly Contest #359
The man settled back into the bench, leaning a little to the left to avoid the eager, splintering wood he knew too well. Sunrise lit the morning after last night's rain, quietly awakening the park to the smells of wet grass, wet dog, and stale second-hand smoke. The man breathed it in. His hands were clasped in his lap. His sandaled feet were tucked underneath him. The little red bird whose company he kept — the only company that seemed able to last a complete conversation with him — sailed around the park from tree to tree. When a flyer fr...
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