Published & Contest Winning Prose

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Again the dusk has filled this town with fog a sight I've grown accustomed to; odd shapes and silhouettes become dancers and these cracked calloused streets have become their stage. As they dance a bullfrog belches in the background a light wind rustles some leaves. In the distance I hear the sawmill; metal blades gnarling through the flesh of a helpless, old redwood begging for his life.