Class Anthology
CW205: Introduction to Creative Writing
John Cabot University Spring Term 2012
Instructor: Dr. Carlos Dews
1 May 2012
COPYRIGHT STATEMENT The copyright for the selections in this anthology is retained by the authors. Do not republish, reprint, or duplicate in any manner without the written permission of the author.
Fiction:
Patricia Clasen:?? ?A Permanant Vacation?
Sarah Rae:?????????? ?Waiting Room?
Molly Skubak:?????? ?Untitled
Creative Nonfiction
Patricia Clasen:???? ?Keep the Beach Clean?
Sarah Rae:???????????? ?A Running Definition?
?
FICTION
A Permanent Vacation
by Patricia Clasen
Before her feet have enough time to talk things over with her brain, they shuffle their way towards the exit. Her slippers barely make any noise as they slide along the cold, marble floors. Her right elbow leans into the heavy door; her left hand grips the knob, and twists it to the right. Pausing for a moment to catch her breath, she feels the cold brass underneath her fingers. With one swift maneuver, her body slides through the door?s opening. She cringes at the boom the door makes as it slams behind her.
She finds herself behind the counter at an antique shop. The clanging of the door signals that a customer just walked in. ?Can I help you sir?? This job constantly tests her patience; each new customer proves to be more elderly and eccentric than the last. A middle-aged man walks in, donning a torn pair of Levis and an old Hanes t-shirt. He seems different from the others. He has an envelope filled with ten-dollar bills, surely his entire life savings. His demeanor reminds her of her father. She wonders what he is searching for among all of the artifacts. She watches him warily as he strolls around the store. He finds her uneasiness attractive.
?Dolores, where are you going??
She cannot be here anymore. That is all she knows. Her hazel eyes glance away from the elderly nurse?s worried glare. Eye contact means submission. Her feet make a quick left and hasten down the corridor. Her palms face outward to graze the surface of the textured walls. Pulse quickening, heart racing, the need to escape becomes more immediate. She hurries away, but hears the feint echoing of footsteps in the distance.
She is twelve again. The bottoms of her feet feel blistered, surely from walking shoeless along the splintery boardwalk. She hears her father?s voice in the background. Please. Per favore. Por favor. She notices the passerby averting their eyes, refusing to drop even a penny into his cracked cup. She blinks and she is eighty again.
With the turn of the corner, the moment of freedom disappears into the distant horizon of her past. Her eyes begin to blink uncontrollably, as they become tired and useless. Her left hip bangs into the corner edge of the security desk. A bitter taste creeps into the deep corners of her mouth. The breath escapes from her lungs. Her throat clenches as it starts to gasp for air. The smell of ammonia and disinfectant overwhelm. Her head hits the floor.
?Quick, grab the doctor!?
Her eyes open. She sees that she is right back where she started. She is surrounded by a sea of nurses, connected to a net of wires, lost among the sounds of monitors. A silent buzzing that only she can hear gives her a headache, and prevents her from hearing all of the doctor?s worried commands. Tears hinder her ability to read anyone?s lips or detect any changes in their body language. Confusion reigns, exhausting not only her mind, but her entire body as well. A quick flinch of her arm leads to a painful discovery. She is strapped. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to understand, she forgets what freedom feels like.
Waiting Room
by Sarah Rae
?It?s going to be alright. I have a good feeling. God is on your side,? Mary whispered in the ear of her sister-in-law, as the two awaited the fateful news, hands still clenched. The shadows from the fluorescent lights accentuated the bags under Elizabeth?s eyes. She spent the past three hours sobbing in Mary?s arms, fighting off thoughts of a life without Jacob. She may have erupted in a full-fledged panic attack had it not been for Mary?s soothing embrace. Mary, the elder of the women, accepted her maternal role. Whether it was due to her spirituality or effortless optimism, Elizabeth was generally envious of her sister-in-law?s composure under pressure. Yet today, as Mary brushed Elizabeth?s blonde ringlet away from her running mascara, she was only grateful.
The two women rushed to Saint Francis Memorial Hospital after receiving the call. The straight-toned police officer informed the wives that the Williams brothers were hit by a newly licensed driver and had sustained severe injuries. Mary Williams?s husband, Bradley, suffered burns from the airbag and whiplash from hitting his head on the dashboard like a paddleball; yet it was Jacob?s contorted, bloodied body that caused the ambulance to weave erratically through traffic.
Bradley felt guilty earlier that morning for leaving Mary alone with their three very active children. All under the age of five, he knew the children could at times be as difficult as they were adorable, but Mary insisted he go on the fishing trip.
?You know I will be fine. And besides, your father has been looking forward to taking the boat out with his boys for ages. Really, you should go. Jacob is waiting. Go.? Mary readjusted their youngest son from her left hip to her right, as the older children ran behind her playfully pulling dandelions in the yard. Bradley could not help but smirk at his
wife?s determination; she was rarely without a relaxed smile so her attempts to be serious were almost comical.
?And besides, little Georgie here wants to try some fishies tonight!?
There it was. The smile he had fallen in love with crept across her face and he knew that was his cue to depart.
?Well then, fish we shall have!?
Bradley lunged for George?s stomach with wriggling hands, sending him in a fit of giggles. Simultaneously, the two other Williams children latched onto Bradley?s legs and he planted kisses on their foreheads. He began to walk towards his car, and turned back to meet Mary?s eyes. ?I love you? he mouthed to his wife, realizing just how lucky he was. A couple miles down the road, tensions were high in the home of Jacob and Elizabeth. Jacob stared out the front window with rod in hand, impatiently awaiting the arrival of his brother.
?I thought you said you were going to mow the lawn yesterday.? Jacob heard his wife?s nagging tone and knew better than to make an excuse. ?Jacob. Have you seen the neighbors? lawns compared to ours? It?s pathetic. It
looks like a frickin? jungle out there. And you know I can?t push that thing.? Jacob looked down at his watch, wondering how many more minutes he was going to have to bear this. ?And the worst part is you make these promises to me and I believe them and then you spring a fishing trip that has apparently been planned for weeks that I was never informed of ??
?Tomorrow. I?ll get it tomorrow.?
As Bradley?s pickup pulled into the driveway, Jacob robotically leaned in to give Elizabeth a kiss goodbye. She turned her face so he could only plant one on her cheek and watched him walk a little too eagerly out the door.
The men left their wives with thoughts of halibut, not hospital beds.
The aroma of disinfectant was nauseating. Elizabeth glanced down at her watch to verify that the second hand was still ticking along.
?Jacob knows that you need him, and he is going to fight through this, Elizabeth. Your love is enough to keep him going.? Resting her head on Mary?s chest, Elizabeth inhaled the perfume from her sister-in-law?s sweater.
?I hope so, I really do,? Elizabeth exhaled a slow, silent breath ? the kind that makes the lungs plead for oxygen. Her eyelids closed like the wings of a ladybug that finally reached a distant flower.
***
?Mrs. Williams, may I speak with you in private??
Elizabeth opened her sticky lids to the blinding whiteness of the waiting room. Body numb, she abandoned Mary?s warmth to walk with the surgical resident towering above her. As they moved further away, she developed a heightened awareness of her surroundings.?? ?The faint squeaking of hospital beds, the foul smell of industrial food from the hospital cafeteria, the tired gaze of the nurses that passed by. For being a place of healing, Elizabeth felt this was a more appropriate setting for death.
?Mrs. Williams, I am so sorry??
His words were icicles, cascading down one by one on Elizabeth. She rehearsed this scene countless times in her head, but no amount of premonition could have prepared her for this moment.
?No.?
?I want to tell you we did everything we could??
?No.? She began to shake and let her head sink into the shoulder of the resident. Where was the sweet smell of perfume? Why were his arms not warm like Mary?s?
?There were unforeseen complications??
The resident could have been speaking in tongues for all Elizabeth knew. Neither the words nor the world made sense.
?He suffered a ruptured brain aneurism. The doctors did everything they could to keep him alive but the trauma to his head was too damaging.?
She did not need this stranger holding her with his oversized, cold hands. She needed Mary to soothe her with her words and rock her like a child.
?Mrs. Williams, I?m sure Bradley was a great man and I am so sorry for your loss.?
Elizabeth raised her head to make eye contact with the resident; the disconcerted expression on her face caused his poise to wane. He had given news of this nature before, but never had he seen a look such as this.
?Mary, we are all very sorry for your loss.?
Down the hallway, out of earshot, Mary watched as Elizabeth hugged herself, her concave shoulders drooping with the pain of loss. She wished her sister-in-law would turn around so she could tell her with one glance that everything was going to be all right.
?
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Untitled
by Molly Skubak
?Lean back for me now. There you go. You may feel some slight pressure, but just try to relax.?
The paper lining the examination table crinkles as she repositions her slender body. She is careful to concentrate on the white ceiling above, but she hears the pings and the clangs of the metal utensils, she catches their gleam in the corner of her eye.
?Okay now, deep breaths. We?ll be done soon.?
She winces slightly and grips the edges of the table. She feels a future being drained from her, a future of swollen ankles, elastic waist jeans and a permanent seat in that cubicle facing the corner office. A future of minivans and dance recitals and plastic-covered electrical outlets, of sleepless nights and pea puree. She winces slightly and it?s done.
?Okay, let us just check over what we?ve got here and then you can head over to the recovery room.?
She breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, the corners of which are dry. Her brown eyes break from the ceiling only for a second, but it?s long enough to see a flash of the deep, velvety red that was once a part of her now resting in a disposable plastic bag.
In the recovery room she sits still, absentmindedly peeling the polish from her nails. The flakes of red lacquer shower her lap like a bloody snowfall. Her eyes focus on the clock above the exit. At last it makes its final tick to signify that her recommended hour of recovery is up. Without waiting for further approval she is out the door and on her way home.
At 6:00 her headlights illuminate the pale blue exterior of the two-story home. The living room and hall lights create a warm glow that pours out from the upstairs windows, inviting her inside. Although on these summer evenings she normally bolts through the front door to avoid the bugs that gather outside of it, tonight she pauses in front of the red frame.
Beyond the door she knows she will find the tall, strong man who has shared this home with her for six years, probably preparing dinner. She knows that before she reaches the top of the steps he will ask her how the check-up went. ?How are my two favorite girls?? he will surely ask. He will smile, gently rub her stomach, kiss her. In return she will sigh and avoid his trusting eyes. She will tell him that something went wrong, that she lost it. She is certain his smile will fade into disbelief and disappointment, but without hesitation he will pull her into him. And she knows that he will silently curse those tiny pink shoes he bought and carefully hid beneath his dress shirts last week. He had been so sure they were going to have a girl.
CREATIVE NONFICTION
Keep the Beach Clean
by ?Patricia Clasen
Close your eyes. The world becomes silent. It is winter. There are no babies crying, no teenagers gossiping, no radios blasting. The quiet is briefly interrupted by the sound of the ocean waves crashing along the shore. Breathe in. As the tides change, a salty aroma flows into my nostrils, overwhelming all of my other senses. The crisp air hurts the innermost part of my chest, but just barely. Now breathe out. A gust of wind skids along my spine. I shiver. The cold is exhilarating, rather than intimidating. Feeling daring, I kick off my boots in order to wiggle my toes in the sand. I don?t need to worry about squishing any sandcastles as I exfoliate my feet; I am not sharing this sand with anyone else. The winter air transforms this beach into the ideal of serenity, the picturesque scene of solitude.
?Discovery Raises Suspicion of a Serial Killer.? December 14, 2010. My roommate sends me the link to The New York Times article through Facebook chat. Surprised that the link did not take me to an article about Kate Middleton, my hands tremble as I scroll down, enthralled with the story. Four bodies are found on the beaches of Long Island, tucked behind bushes, buried in the same sand in which I had just dug my toes. Investigators dismiss suggestions of coincidence, leading to suspicions of a serial killer on the loose.
It is springtime. Normally, I head straight to Jones Beach the second I return home from Boston, but now I am in no hurry. Yet, the looming awareness that I will soon be five hours away from this beach again leads me to hop in the car with my dad and brother. With a heat wave hitting the Northeast just in time for Easter, I get away with wearing shorts and flip-flops. However, my brother still wears a sweatshirt and sneakers. I notice the sweat trickling down his forehead, but don?t say anything. Jumping out of my dad?s convertible, I find myself only a few steps away from the splintery boardwalk, the boardwalk where my parents walk their way to good health once a week. As soon as I clear the planks, I toss aside my sandals and spread my toes in the sand. The breeze of the ocean helps me appreciate the warmth of the midday sun. There are more people outside today ? taking leisurely walks on the boardwalk, braving the frigid cold water, grabbing fries by the docks. This comforts me, although I am not exactly sure as to why. The textbook I brought along with me in my knapsack presses against my back, presses me to stop thinking about it. Frustrated, I close my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I take in the calm of the ocean. Immediately relaxed, I am assured it is almost summer.
?Bright, Careful and Sadistic: Profiling Long Island?s Mystery Serial Killer.? April 21, 2011. The New York Times posts several updates after their initial article piqued the interest of so many Long Islanders. This article proves to be particularly interesting, as the reporter types out interviews with criminologists, FBI agents, and incarcerated Long Island serial killers. All in an attempt to paint a portrait ? 20 to 40 years of age, married, well educated, employed, well articulated. The New York Post claims a different identity for the murderer, reporting that he must be a resident police officer. Later on, officials will start doubting whether these murders are the act of one sole serial killer. One thing is agreed upon; whoever is responsible for stashing the bodies among the shoreline is familiar with the land. The question of identity remains as the investigators continue to search for answers.
It is summer. After tossing a towel into my oversized bag, grabbing a pair of sunglasses and throwing on a bikini, I drive down the backstreets of Bethpage. With my friends in tow, we stop by the bagel store before continuing our way in the direction of the shore, down the scenic highway. Sometimes we close our eyes and listen to the contrast of the soothing waves and the shrieks of four year olds digging moats nearby. Other times we all bring our own iPods, each equipped with a relaxation playlist. My iPod has found a permanent spot in my beach bag this summer, as I hope the melody of Jack Johnson could overpower the screams of slain victims that overwhelm my thoughts. Exhausted from the evening before, napping at the beach is most pleasurable. Nestling in the sand, cuddling with the warmth of the sun, I attempt to fall asleep. The ocean cools off any splotchy sunburn, but we blanket ourselves in SPF 30. The sounds of bottles opening and coolers being dragged through the sand force us to open our eyes. I cannot help but wonder what else has been dragged through this sand recently. I blink quickly, trying to erase the thought from my mind. I desperately look for a distraction. It is nearly impossible to find the beach completely empty. There is a different energy to the shore during summertime, a different excitement, a different serenity. Only on the occasions where my friends and I sneak onto the beach past sunset hours do we find some seclusion.
?Mourning Slain Women, Families Hold Vigil on Long Island.? June 11, 2011. The New York Times joins the families of the victims for a vigil on the south shore. Poems, posters, candles, and songs commemorate the lives of the girls who lost their lives so brutally and unexpectedly. Lifetimes are expressed through storytelling and bittersweet sentiments. Stories of these victims resonate within the hearts of many; these victims are mainly young, white females. Balloons of assorted colors fly into the sky as families let go of their grasp, as families try to let go of their bitterness and depression. A scene of serenity transforms into one of despair.
It is autumn. Labor Day is approaching, and I pack my boxes once again to make the trek up to Boston for the fall semester. Days before my Ford Focus is all packed, there is news that a hurricane is headed for the Northeast. A rare occurrence, Long Islanders are acting as if they have seen the all-telling sign of the apocalypse. With grocery stores emptied of all their staples ? their milk, paper towels, egg cartons, loaves of bread gone ? my mom heads to Target to buy gallons upon gallons of bottled water. The storm hits. The island blinks and it is gone. Before the weather forecasters display images of demoted Tropical Storm Irene hovering over Massachusetts, I grab my camera and meet my dad in his convertible. We make the twenty-five minute drive. The parking lots are all closed off with emergency vehicles and police tape. Another body found? No, it was just the storm. My dad tucks the car along the side of the road behind an SUV, and we climb out to estimate the damages. The verdict is indecisive. My dad jokes, ?Where did the beach go?? I reply with a more serious, ?yeah Dad, where did the beach go?? The sand is buried beneath pools of ocean water. The food court is boarded up. Volleyball nets are scattered at a distance in the faraway ocean. Finally the beach shows signs of what has been happening for the past few months. Terrified of finding another body floating among the flooded sands, I close my eyes. After taking a long deep breath, I reopen them. With the salty aroma, I am reminded of the beach?s strength. I feel at once both serene and secure. However, this is fleeting.
?Pursuing Identities, Police Disclose Details About L.I. Victims.? September 20, 2011. The New York Times has another update. A thirty-two month old baby is discovered further down the highway, extending the crime scene, further sullying Long Island?s panoramic seaside strip. Her mother is assumed to be one of the other bodies found along the shore. As the number reaches ten, the detectives are beginning to run out of fingers on which to count the victims. Only five out of these ten have their history, backstory, identity discovered. The Suffolk police commissioner reminds his people that real police work takes longer than the sixty-minute episodes of CSI. Long Islanders are growing impatient. So far no arrests have been made; no suspects have been questioned. The identity of the killer remains unknown.
It is winter once again. The brisk cold night limits the plans for the evening. Avoiding the cold, my friends and I resort to the comfort of a heated car, taking the familiar drive to the southern shore. Driving the open expanse of highway at night, we are mesmerized by the distant, subtle stars. We roll down the windows to breathe in the crispness of the salty air. Smells like low tide. I suddenly shiver. Chills are racing up my spine as I imagine him driving these same roads, haunting the serenity of my safe haven, whispering into his victims? ears? ?Close your eyes. Breathe in. Now breathe out.?
?
A Running Definition
by Sarah Rae
Running is natural.
I am built to run. In a way,we all are. It?s in our genes. Be it by the hand of the supernatural or natural selection, our blueprints for creation give us the mechanisms to endure miles of heart pumping, blood rushing, feet bounding, running. The skull allows sweat to evaporate from the scalp, forehead, and face, cooling the blood to prevent overheating. A ligament runs from the neck to the thoracic vertebrae, acting as an internal shock absorber and counterbalances the head and the arms. An enlarged buttocks and long limbs allow for stable strides across distances. Even the arrangement of the smallest bones in our feet creates a stiff arch to enhance the springing motion when pushing off. Running is one of the most primitive and pure actions. Whether it is thanks to fate or fruition, the potential for humans to run has existed for millennia.
Running is playful.
Recreational running dates back to the ancient Olympic Games of 776 BC where it was practiced as a religious celebration for Zeus.?? ?The first time I participated in this joyous act was around 1994. Clumsy with my heavy head leading the way, my limbs flail with centrifugal force. Making determined laps through the house, I feel the cold linoleum of the kitchen beneath my toes followed by the segmented wood of the hall and finally the itchy carpet of the living room. My laughter permeates the air when I hear my father?s footsteps pretending to chase me, his wooly arms extended. Had I been born a decade later, I probably would have been dubbed hyperactive, yet on this day, my parents call me ?The Road Runner.? No chair leg nor refrigerator door can halt me in my tracks. Inhaling my mother?s cooking, I begin to salivate for this familiar smell. But before I take my seat across from my older sister at the kitchen table, one more lap.
Running is necessary.
Our ancestors embraced these anatomical gifts. Long before running was a form of recreation, it was a means of survival ? a question of growling stomachs or gluttonous reward. The pace-pushing bi-pedals of the past needed their lean muscles to hunt, scavenge, and escape predators. Even before the invention of bows, arrows, and spears, man?s first defense was his endurance. Across scorching plains and mountainous woodlands, humans ran for their livelihood
Personally, running has never been a necessity for survival, but growing up in my father?s household, it was important. As a Division 1 collegiate wrestler who only recently retired from coaching, he has trained me in both athletics and life.?? ?My attitude was never the issue; I was always the proud recipient of ?Most Enthusiastic? or ?Best Sport? at childhood awards ceremonies. However, my coordination was on par with a rock?s. After dropped lacrosse ball, wide soccer goal, fudged field hockey trap, and missed softball catch, my father was about ready to put me in a wrestling unitard. Seemingly, the only athletic asset I had was that I could sprint around the field for entire games with a smile on my face.
Running is challenging.
Evolving from religious jests to organized competition, betting on runners became popular in 17th century England. From that point on, the sport of running has developed into a science of preparation, nutrition, and genetics. Centuries of runners before me have beaten their bodies and tested their limits, yet it is not until 2005 while attending Hatboro-Horsham High School that I become acutely aware of the agony of training.
I dread the end of fifth period, knowing as soon as the hand grazes 2:45, I have fifteen minutes to panic before the crippling waves of nausea and lactic acid buildup. I grip my pubescent figure as my mind apologizes for the undeserved punishment my body is about to endure. The relentlessness of the turns. The hot swell of my teammate?s breath growing stronger on my neck as she attempts to muscle by. The memories of past speed workouts haunt and excite. The adrenaline has already begun to bolt through my veins like Spain?s encierro ? the running of the bulls. A saner self would hop on bus 49 to my suburban sanctuary, but I know my teammate?s disappointment will be more unbearable than any time trial. As the bell wails to signal most students? departures, I come to terms with my awaited task. I trudge to the stadium, taking for granted my taunt limbs that know nothing of limitation.
Running is passion.
One must be passionate if one is going to attempt to run just over twenty-six miles consecutively. In fact, so much passion is needed that only .13% of Americans have successfully finished a marathon. Legend states the first marathon was accidentally completed by a Greek solider, Pheidippides, who ran 25 miles from the town of Marathon to Athens in 490 BC. Now the passion for distance running has become an international epidemic, with approximately 800 marathons held every year; one of these is the Suntrust Richmond Marathon, which I had the privilege to compete in during 2011.
Lightheaded, lips cracking, hip flexors about to snap like rubber bands pulled one too many times. I have never been this happy. Prior to rounding the corner, I can hear the onlookers? melodious chanting. Their words, insignificant, but they herald me home past the 26-mile marker. Stumbling, bumbling, my whole way down; I revel in the accomplishment I am about to realize. If endorphins were a drug, I would be an addict. When I half-heartedly began training in August, I never imagined I would dedicate the excessive number of hours, sweat, and calories towards this endeavor. This is the first race where neither time nor place mattered to me. The simple pleasure of setting a goal and accomplishing it does the body good.?? ?As I cross the finish line, I crumple under the weight of fulfillment and fatigue.
Running is a gift.
And like any gift, it can be taken away. Time passes. People grow old, weak. Days, like the lane markers on a highway, fly by. One day you could be running along the river, wind caressing your cheeks with smooth sensuality, a bullet cutting through time and space. And then the unexpected happens that makes you wish life could be simpler. A little gentler on you. It is the day when you appreciate the gifts you have been given, even if it?s too late. I had that day in 2012.
Do not move. Do not breathe. I want to shed my skin like a snake. Who was that girl bounding along the murky bank a few days prior, serene smile, sun reflecting in every blonde strand as her ponytail pirouetted in the wintry breeze? She is a foreigner to me now. Restless, I roll on my left side, sending lightning pain through my core. If only I could sleep away the shame, the hopelessness, the unrelenting fear that this is the first time, but not the last. My eyes scan the room for some sort of distraction, but all I can see in the darkness are the outlines of sad looking furniture. The desk, the chair, the chest of drawers. They mourn for me. I feel small. Fragile. Nighttime is the worst because there are no distractions to keep me from my tormenting thoughts; while my vessel remains motionless, my mind races forward, tripping over the how and the why and the irony of illness. Warm tears creep into the crevices of my face and I am too detached to wipe them off.?? ?Alone, I suffer, yearning to be on an open road, sprinting far away from this prison bed I am bound to, nothing before me but infinite horizon.
Running is inspiring.
It is amazing the impact such a primitive action can have on people?s lives. In 2007, Anne Mahlum founded the organization Back on My Feet, which uses running as a means to build self-esteem and strength within homeless populations across the country; Back on My Feet boasts a 90% attendance rate of members to every run and has helped 50% achieve an independent lifestyle. Running has also inspired John Prenguber of Colorado, who before having both legs amputated due to a diabetic infection, completed nine marathons. If that was not a feat in itself, he continued to complete his tenth marathon on May 14, 2011, with two prosthetics. These stories are two of many that prove the willpower of a runner may be enough to conquer any hardship. Running is not my life, but it has always been a part of it. It is difficult to define the place or moment I realized this, but the lessons I have learned from running have built my character. I have felt the beauty of bounding up rocks, letting nature?s buzz surround me, my lungs collapsing atop a picturesque lookout. Likewise, I have felt the pain of knowing there will be days in my future when I will not be able to lace up my sneakers and head out the door. But the ability to run, to laugh, to dream, to forgive, to love, are the gifts I have been given so I will keep moving forward, one foot at a time.
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