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Weekly Contest #230
I am sitting on my grandparents’ porch, in the rocking chairs that had been passed down for generations. The armrests had been worn down by deep conversations over whiskey and cigarettes. Those were the not so old habits my grandfather warned me about. My eyes traced through the jagged grain of the wood, up and down the lines dating it back. The wood had been smoothed by the passing years, like running water through the Grand Canyon. I splinter my fingers by picking at the wood. I would much rather have to spend hours picking wood chips from...
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