Jack Sprout was pissed off, his face cherry red. His stride down Flagitious Street was fast and angry. He left Maple and Fifth, where his home nested behind in the dust. Jack was heading towards a house that sat on the dead end of Flagitious, an empty drab gray Victorian. His grandparents had died there years ago.
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As always, that's the news, we are who we are, judge us not by the smallness of our town, but the spirit that roams here, thrives here and grows here endlessly.
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