The Distant Joke

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2026-08-18 20:53:02 -

The Distant Joke

The river mud clung to my boots like a living thing, heavy and black, tasting of iron and old blood as I pulled myself up the bank. I had walked for three days without seeing a soul, my pack strapped tight against my back, holding the only thing I had left that felt real. It was a fox pelt, stripped and cured by the frost, its fur once a brilliant, fiery orange, now the color of dried rust. I...

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