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Rachael Harrington: Story Artist
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As they slid down the pale corridor, a rhythm began to play out on a small squeeky wheel. Normand opened his eyes and watched the lights go by.
My journal is full of small, fragmented memories
There are big fat overgrown bushes that sit stubbornly in front of our kitchen window. On late summer afternoons when the hot sun
Every once in a while I meet a person that intimidates me
