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Weekly Contest #350
The morning smells like rain that he hasn't felt in ages. Gerald knows this smell the way he knows the creak of the third porch step, the way he knows the sound of his own breathing in a house that no longer seems to breathe itself. It’s a smell like anticipation, like something the world is holding just behind its teeth. He sits in the white rocker that Margaret bought at an estate sale in 1987. She'd driven forty minutes to a farmhouse outside of Pueblo and paid sixty dollars for it, which was sixty dollars they didn't exactly have, and sh...
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