A Second Chance



At the hearth, there sat a man weeping.

A man with a farmer's brown hide and the grey-green eyes of a Southerner. He sat hunched, wrung a stone-bead crucifix in his broad and shaking hands. He prayed, red and weary eyes screwed shut, lips tracing silent petitions. Spilled tears ran down his worn knuckles, over the stone beads, liquid orange in the reflected firelight.


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Benton

Chief Producer of Typos at Incunabuli.com.

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