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Not His Fault
by: Stories
On: 17/09/2008
Banked 3352d 20h 52m ago
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A short story by Melandra A Bethell:
May stepped out of the hall, closed the battered yellow door and stood on the pavement, breathing the sharp air. Her breath hung in front of her face in little clouds, unwilling to drift away and join the morning mist. She felt the unearthly stillness you hear only on Christmas day, with all the streets empty of traffic, and curtains closed against the cold, and shivered.

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