Storygram #27
No one blamed him. But he blamed himself. He erected a fence between the children and his work, to keep them safer.
No one blamed him. But he blamed himself. He erected a fence between the children and his work, to keep them safer.
The property taxes had steadily risen each year. Now, we were the last farm in the entire county, and our land had been sealed on every side by concrete.
My iron black hair and my silvery metal fist for a left hand were how the peasants knew me. As soon as I walked across the drawbridge and through the gate, everyone froze.
He was a fungus–such an ugly word. He hated it. He knew they wouldn’t let him continue to grow around such beauty, and the word was a constant reminder of it.
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