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100 words long. Not a word more, not a word less.
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Oblate by Clyde Liffey
I was born with an oblate head thrust from the womb to the bottom of the room. Father picked me up, fondled my head tentatively. It was too late to reshape: I was too advanced or, more likely, too stubborn. Mother groaned. They couldn’t afford the surgery to ablate a decent crown or chin on me. An imperfect sphere, structurally unfit to mix with my peers, I hankered for monkish life. Father whimpered as I performed the final ablutions to join the order. Late that night I shivered on a stone bench, already a failure, gazing at cold distant bodies.
The SHORT TALE 100 – AUGUST 2016