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One more short story. Hello and welcome to episode

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two of One More Short Story with me, Chris Fullwell.

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Thank you for joining us. Once again, we're going

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to be diving into some of the stories from the

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world of writing battle. Two stories this time.

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Short and sweet, but that's okay. We don't mind

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short and sweet. Not when they're this good.

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And without giving the game away, stories where

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somebody is not who they may appear to be. Very,

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very different in style. Both 500 words long

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from the spring microfiction in 2025. Now we're

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going to kick things off with Split Ends by David

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Rowe. This was back in the small town secrets

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genre and the other two prompts were barbershop

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and champion. Now it's read by Maverick Jones

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and I definitely don't want to give too much

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away on this and I know you're going to enjoy

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it. But let's just say it's about a barber who

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maybe is more than she appears to be. So this

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is Split Ends by David Rowe read by Maverick

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Jones. The man darkening my doorstep carries

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a noxious aura, malice dripping cleanly from

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his unburdened soul. You must be the new barber,

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he says. His eyes sweep my body with a mixture

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of contempt and desire. And you must be Paul

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Kresser, I say, gesturing to the chair. Paul

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ambles over. his ponderous bulk landing heavily

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on his right side. He has the look of an athlete

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gone to seed, though unmistakable power still

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lurks beneath his extra pounds. So what do you

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normally get, I ask, fastening the cape around

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his neck. Paul shrugs. Frank always fixed me

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up right. Damn shame what happened to him. Frank.

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The name summons a savory taste on my tongue.

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He'd been a buffet of secrets, a meal fit for

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a queen. I'd gorged on the terrible truths that

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had punctuated his screams. Tragic, I say, as

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I meet Paul's gaze in the mirror. I know how

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prominently Paul featured in some of Frank's

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darker secrets. This town may be small, but it

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offers a rich menu. I start cutting once it's

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clear no further instruction is forthcoming.

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So, tell me about yourself, Paul. Not much to

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tell. Our construction. Married? Yep. Getting

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all gussied up for the wife, I ask. Date night

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tonight? Paul chuckles. Something like that.

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The accreed scent of a lie permeates the air,

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overpowering the barbicide. How nice. Paul's

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scarred knuckles emerge from beneath the cape,

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wiping a clump of hair from his cheek. I catch

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a glimpse of silver before his hand disappears

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back under the nylon. Nice ring. Paul grunts.

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I was state champion. Might have gone pro until

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I tore up my knee. I'm so close that his feelings

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melt on my tongue. I lick my lips, trying to

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place it. It's not regret nor melancholy. Its

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rage tastes like iron. Sorry to hear that. After

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a few more snips and some gel, I'm finished.

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Paul takes a moment to admire himself in the

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mirror. Not bad for a chick. He flashes nicotine

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-stained teeth. Just kidding. I return his smile

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and take his cash. Until next time. As soon as

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Paul leaves, I flip the sign to closed. I pull

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a lump of clay from the drawer and begin molding

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it into the shape of a man. I give the figure

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thick arms and a heavy punch and place a tinfoil

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ring around its fat finger. Upon its head, I

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arrange the fresh hair clippings from the floor.

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I knock again. At last, a woman cracks open the

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door. There are shadows in her eyes, a dark reflection

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of the man I'd seen earlier. Good evening, Mrs.

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Cressford, I say. She hugs herself tightly. Do

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you have it? I hand her the doll. As promised.

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She reaches for it with a trembling hand. Thank

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you. How can I repay you? I smile. Just let me

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watch. She swings open the door and steps aside.

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I'm still sated by Frank, but sometimes a girl

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needs dessert. Blimey. Well, that's my nightmare

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sorted for the next couple of weeks. I mean,

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don't get me wrong, that guy clearly had it coming.

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But yeah, what a story. I think there's a non

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-zero chance that either the writer or narrator

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of that story have actually killed people before.

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I should stress that is just a joke. I don't

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want to create problems for our legal team. Our

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legal team is me. But yeah, great story. Really,

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really strong stuff. Now, David got himself to

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the Sensational 64 in the final showdown for

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that one back in the spring. I think it should

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have gone further personally, but hey, what do

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I know? I'm just a guy doing a podcast. Now,

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we're going to move on to something lighter.

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I think we all need that. And it's going to be

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Pride Comes Before the Fish by Christina Kershaw.

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Again, back in the spring. This was in the house

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pet adventures genre. Her other prompts were

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diplomat and subway. And she's been gracious

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enough to let me read it. I do enjoy reading

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a story now and again. Not just to myself, as

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much fun as that is. But I do enjoy it and I

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hope I can do it justice. So this is Pride Comes

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Before the Fish by Christina Kershaw. Read by

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me, Chris Falwell. Sir Alfred Whittington II

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was the toughest gangster around. He ran his

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territories with an iron claw, once leaving a

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foe scarred and half blind. He prowled through

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his tunnel, pausing to sharpen his claws on a

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threadbare seat next to the platform, before

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crossing the train line and entering mouse control.

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Keeping track of their supply was Sable's domain.

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Sable was a powerful hunter and protective of

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their vermin stock. Usually. You're eating it,

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Alfred hissed. He leapt on Sable, biting his

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neck and ripping out a chunk of fur. Get off

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me, Sable yowled. My owner's left. I'm starving.

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On reflection, he did look scrawnier than when

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he'd first arrived. but Alfred never showed weakness.

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Starving will be the least of your problems if

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I catch you again. An unfamiliar scent caught

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his attention. Stay here, he said. He followed

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the scent, rubbing his cheek on the walls as

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he went. This didn't deter the intruders, and

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their scent grew stronger. Alfred dropped onto

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his haunches and slunk towards it. quieter than

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those rodents Sable was so fond of. Into view

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tiptoed a dishevelled gutter cat, body low and

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ears pulled back. My name is Timothy. My group

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and I are returning from a trip to Salmon River.

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Please allow us through. It'll take half the

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time to return home. Hmm. Sir Alfred Whittington

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II has no interest in charity cases. Turn around

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now and count yourself lucky you're still in

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one piece. Timothy lowered his head. Please,

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we can pay you with some of our haul. You'll

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leave it all as payment for trespassing. The

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gutter cat reared up. We thought you'd want this.

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a baby blue collar landed at alfred's feet alfred

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growled fur bristling he pounced sending timothy

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hurtling backwards landing mere steps away from

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the railway line how we saw you drop it outside

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alfred or should i say snuggle bum we know who

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you are you're old lady richardson's pampered

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prince You get cuddles and fresh tuna every night.

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One more word and you'll be meeting the next

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train, Alfred said. Do it. My pack will still

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tell the world. Or let us through. You keep the

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collar and we keep quiet. Go on then, quick,

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Alfred said. Leave some salmon. Timothy raised

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an eyebrow. his golden eyes as piercing as Alfred's

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claws. Alfred was loath to admit it, but this

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guy was good. Diplomacy had never been his strong

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suit, but this kitty had it nailed. Leave some

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salmon, please, Alfred said. You're most welcome,

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Timothy said, dropping two plump fish. With a

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final glare at the retreating pack, Alfred snatched

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up the salmon and traipsed back to Sable. I sent

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the trespassers packing, but I got these, Alfred

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said, dumping a salmon in front of Sable. Come

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on, eat up. Can't have you on mouse control if

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you've got no muscle. Oh, and help yourself to

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mice whenever you want. The place is crawling

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with them. If anyone complains, you send them

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to me. So there we go. Sir Alfred Whittington,

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a .k .a. Snuggle Bomb, gets a reality check.

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I did enjoy the house pet adventures, and I think

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Christina absolutely nailed the kind of fluffy

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animals taking themselves seriously. But then,

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ah, wonderful. Love it. Love it. She got herself

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to the Sensational 64 with that story. I definitely

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think it should have gone further, possibly unbiased

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because I was allowed to read it. But hey, getting

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to the last 64 out of hundreds and hundreds and

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hundreds of writers is not to be sniffed at at

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all. It's a great competition, writing battle,

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but it does sometimes knock our egos as writers

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when we don't get maybe where we want to. But

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look, these fantastic stories come out of it.

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We get to read them. You get to listen to them.

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There are so many positives that come out of

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the writing process of writing battle. In my

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couple of years of doing it, just the volume

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of fantastic things that I've read is huge. I've

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learned a lot. I've picked up on things that

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I do as a writer that don't work very well and

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that do work very well in some people's eyes.

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And it's just fun. First and foremost, this is

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meant to be fun. And that's definitely what Christina

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gave us in Pride Comes Before the Fish, as did

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David in a very, very different way in Split

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Ends. Thank you for joining us for another episode

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of One More Short Story with me, Chris Falwell.

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We'll see you next time.
