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Mini-fiction #3

June 3, 2010

She stood in the door of the caravan, a triangle of slightly burnt toast in one hand, the other hand resting on her hip.

She could hear children playing and laughing and then arguing.  The cord on her knee-length bathrobe seemed to be tied too high up and she fussed with it a moment.

The children had resolved their conflict and were laughing again.  She thought of the children, a boy and girl, that she could never have.

 

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