Trad Gang
Main Boards => PowWow => Topic started by: Swinestalker on June 24, 2021, 11:07:02 PM
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It was cold and dark on the riverbank. I could feel my toes breaking through the thin, delicate layer of ice that covered the sand as I carefully took each step. We paused briefly at waters edge to behold the natural beauty of the cold clear sky, gleaming and sparkling with countless stars as it cast dim light across the open sandbar in the pre dawn hour. Before us lay the swirling river, gently gurgling along in the cold darkness. Taken by the moment, powerful emotions washed over me, emotions driven by instincts as old as mankind itself. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. I could tell my Grandfather was feeling the very same emotions. Excitement and adventure lay across that river! Two men, one young, one old, were about to hunt. I have often felt a kinship with peoples from ages past at times like this, often wondering to myself if caveman hunting parties felt the same emotions that I now felt? Bet they did...The pure and natural drive to hunt is a powerful thing indeed. It will drive men to do things. Do things like wade an icy river before daylight...Despite the powerful longing and desire to hunt, I did however, still dread that first step into the icy water. It was going to hurt...It always did...
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:campfire: And….
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:thumbsup: :thumbsup:
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Been there done that and I too brother, love the drive! :thumbsup:
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Coffee time...!! :coffee:
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The Homochitto river is an interesting river, a mysterious river, a dangerous river...It snakes its way through southern Mississippi eventually emptying into the mighty river this state is named after. For most of the way, it is bounded by alternating steep banks and large open sandbars. These tend to give way to thick hardwood bottoms and swamps. At normal levels it ranges from 150 to 250 feet across and there is only a lazy current. After periods of heavy rain however, it can rapidly transform into a swift, raging torrent several hundred yards wide and capable of washing out bridges, uprooting enormous trees and causing massive erosion. At these times, huge drift piles can be carried down stream. Normal depth ranges from a couple of feet deep to 8 feet or so in the bends. The sand is constantly drifting and a spot you can easily wade one day, can float your hat the next....
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Grandfather and I had rode down to the river the previous evening to make sure it was still only knee deep in this spot. It was, but a deep hole lurked about 30 yards down stream. Both of us gasped as we stepped into the icy water and its chilling fingers took hold of our legs. How well I remember the first time we ever waded the river in cold weather. I was a young boy of about 8 years old. Apparently my grandfather could sense my fear. He took my hand, looked at me with a wry, but kind smile and said, “I’ll hold your hand.” “Now remember boy, the cold will hurt at first, hurt deep down in your bones.” “You just hold on to my hand and keep wading, soon you’ll numb up and it won’t hurt so much.” Over the next few years, he no longer needed to hold my hand, but always slowed his pace to stay near me, just in case. I was now a young man of 19 years and had made this painful, but rewarding trip many times. It did not escape my attention that over the last few years, the situation had reversed itself. I now instinctually slowed my pace to keep near him, just in case...
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He carried an old Remington Sportsman 48 semi auto 12 gauge. It was well worn from years of hard use. Much of the blueing was gone and the walnut stock had countless scratches, dings and gouges that bore testimony to the many stories it had to tell. I carried a beat up old Bear recurve. It had its own stories to tell. It had endured a rough life at the hands of a teenager full of youthful energy. A teenager obsessed with archery and hunting. It was actually my grandfather who gave it to me some years back. A WW2 veteran, he never had any real interest in archery. He did however have an interest in me. He had noticed the way I constantly shot my little cheap fiberglass bow. He had noticed how I drooled over the racks of new Bear bows at the Otasco department store. One evening in early summer, after working hard all day in a tire plant, he brought it home and presented it to me. Seems he had done some horse trading at work. No 12 year old has ever been happier. Even had a quiver of cedar arrows to go with it! I was completely flabbergasted! Grandpa, probably noticing the shocked look on my face, and no doubt remembering the numerous instances from the past where my arrows had wound up in places they should not have been, sternly looked me in the eye and said, “Son, that ain’t no toy!” “If anymore windows get broken, tin roofs get holes poked in them, or anymore cats get ventilated, I’ll take that bow away and kick your behind so high in the air, the blue birds will build in it!” “Understand?” Yes sir! I gleefully exclaimed as I raced away with my new treasures. Grandpa’s bark was always much worse than his bite. Besides, the first two were just accidents, and that darned ol cat had made a full recovery....
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:scared:
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This is the good stuff!
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:thumbsup: :thumbsup: :coffee:
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We had not been able to hunt together much over the last couple of years. His only daughter, my mother, was lost to cancer and it had been a difficult time for us both. It was now late December, just a few days before Christmas and we were both excited at the prospect of getting to hunt together again after such a long time. Growing up, we hunted together every season. My grandfather spent countless hours afield with me. He never really killed many deer, as most of his efforts were focused on giving me opportunities. This was back in the 70s and 80s when semi auto Remington “Woodsmaster” rifles were the in-style weapon to have. Bowhunting at that time was virtually unheard of in our neck of the woods. Being a young teen that “hunted with sticks” as some of the family called it, I took all manner of ridicule and was the butt of many jokes. It was all in good nature, but I was still regarded as kinda “different” nonetheless. The family owned a large tract of land along the Homochitto and hunting was a very social thing with uncles, nephews, cousins and friends joining in. They usually ran dogs in the mornings and took stands in the evenings. My grandfather realized fairly quickly that this was just not my way. He sensed something in me and unselfishly adapted the way he hunted, the only way he ever known how to hunt, just to suit my style. We began to hunt together in a unique fashion, him with his old shotgun, me with my bow. I had no bow hunting peers, so my grandfather did the best he could to be one. Over the years, we certainly did not do a lot of damage to the deer population, but we had more genuinely good times afield than should be allowed by law. We were there to hunt, and therefore our goal was to kill, yet it was far more than that. It’s a deep bonding that I believe only other hunters can understand. About 100 acres of the family land was across the Homochitto river. Because of the difficulty and inconvenience of getting across the river, no one in the family really hunted there much, except me and grandpa....
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Loving it!
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Keep it going
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This is awesome so far! I’m in for the rest!!!
Bisch
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He carried the old shotgun over his shoulder with a familiar ease. Draped over the barrel were his socks, boots, and pants. I carried mine pretty much the same way from my bow limb. He also carried an old rucksack that contained our lunch and the bomb. The “Bomb” was our terminology for a wad of straw, small sticks and lighter pine that we would use to easily and quickly start a fire on the far shore. I can assure you there is nothing better than a good fire after wading an icy river! It would warm us up and dry our feet before putting the socks and boots back on. It also allowed us to “smoke up” which was our scent control plan. To this day, even with all the fancy gimmicks and sprays, it remains my preferred method. We reached the far shore without tripping, falling or stepping in a hole. He was still amazingly strong and sure footed for a man in his 70s. In no time at all we had a crackling fire going and we were warming up nicely. The sun was just beginning to cast its first dim glow in the East before the coming dawn. I could now see he was out of breath and breathing heavily, taking this quiet time to catch his breath before we began to hunt. The flickering firelight accented the heavy lines in his face, and the many scars on his hands. It was plain to see that time had robbed much of his vigor and strength over the years. It had not however, robbed him of his desire and will! His piercing blue eyes locked on mine and he said, “Ok son, what’s the plan?”. Despite his age, I could see the childish excitement and thirst for adventure dancing in his eyes. I saw a child’s eyes in an old mans face. Indeed, I saw for the first time, a glimpse into my own future....
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He listened intently as I explained the plan. We were still out on the open sandbar by the fire. The sandbar gave way about 50 yards past us to a thick and dense stand of river willow that ran parallel to the sandbar for about 400 yards. The willow in turn gave way to mature hardwoods after running a couple of hundred yards deep. Grandpa would go in the willows and very slowly stalk his way up to a point on a small ridge in the hardwoods. I would ease down the sandbar a few hundred yards and do the same. This would take all morning. Hopefully, we might push deer past one another. I would continue to stalk back towards his position until I reached a point about 150 yards behind where he would be. There would be a rise between us and I would whistle to him from there. I could hear him if he shot, but he could not hear me. Over the years, without fail, when we met back up, he’d excitedly ask, “Get anything?” We then gathered our gear, wished each other luck and headed our separate ways. The sun was now beginning to crowd the horizon. I turned and watched the old man as he slipped into the willows and disappeared. I thought how different things were now. I was no longer a child to be protected and coddled. I was now a man and treated as an equal. A man he respected and trusted. My standing in the family had changed as well. No longer treated as an oddball, I now carried a position of genuine respect. I had developed into a successful woodsman that regularly brought deer back to camp. Many of the old men now sought my advice about hunting. It struck me then that my plan this morning put grandfather in a far more advantageous position than my own. It was not a conscious decision on my part, yet as I turned it over in my mind, I realized that his success was indeed far more important to me than my own. Reaching the wood-line, I slipped a razor tipped broad head out of the quiver and nocked it, something I now did without looking and with a practiced ease. As I stepped into the willows I thought again about my grandfather and all the countless times he’d un selfishly put my success in front of his own. Oh how badly I longed to hear the deep boom of that old Sportsman 48 break the morning silence....
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Thanks Clifford for this great narration. Hunting under any circumstance is rewarding, but hunting with a relative or good friend is the max's. I will never forget the time that I spent with dad, grandfather, and uncles, in Kentucky, Tennessee, and Indiana. :shaka:
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What a wonderful story. Brings a tear to my eye. Reminds me so much of how it was for me and my Dad. Thank you for bringing back the memories.
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Dawn had broken and the willow thicket was bathed in the steel gray glow of early morning. It was around 30 degrees and the wind was ideal. The fog from my breath would reassuringly drift gently back over my right shoulder as I slowly picked my way through the willows. There was a magic in the air, an anticipation of adventures and opportunities to come. No matter how many times I went hunting, this feeling never faded. I found it very comforting that even after a lifetime afield, Grandpa obviously still felt this same magic. It’s a magic that does not fade, and cannot be broken, except by a quail suddenly exploding from under your feet...To say that I was startled is an understatement. In my experience, the quail is among the most evil of all birds, exhibiting both a malicious nature and a complete lack manners. His uncivilized behavior had caused me to let out a startled yelp and trip over a root as I jumped backwards. Landing squarely on my rump, I glared at the fiendish little bird as he disappeared into the willows as if shot from a cannon. I could not actually see his face, but I’m certain he was smiling....
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Gathering myself, and my things, I continued the hunt. Trying to put the previous incident behind me, I eased on another 50 yards or so at a slightly faster pace. Another hour passed without incident before I reached the edge of the hardwood bottoms. I would stop here for a long while. My view in the willows was never more than 30 yards or so. Here at the edge of the hardwoods, I could see well over 100 yards in places. There were several deer trails meandering through the bottom with the main one about 15 yards in front of me. The sun was now up high enough that rays began to penetrate the canopy, dappling the woods in broken sunlight. I had taken up a spot under a knarly old cedar tree. It was a familiar and comfortable spot that had produced a fat doe for me in the past. After about an hour, the sunlight, pleasant sounds and fragrance of the forest conspired to make me quite sleepy. I dozed and daydreamed most of another hour, soaking up the wonderful morning. Times like these are some of the most enjoyable experiences one can have afield. I knew Grandpa was up on that ridge by now, half asleep himself and daydreaming about who knows what. I did know what I was daydreaming about, quail hunting.....
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The pre rut was in full swing, love was in the air, and the bucks were all worked up looking for receptive does. A big, rusty colored fox squirrel had made his way across the canopy and was now in the cedar above me. I love watching squirrels frolic. Many folks mistakenly think they mess up the deer hunting. That’s pure nonsense. Squirrels and deer live closely together and if anything, the sounds of squirrels feeding helps put deer at ease. Trying to reach the ground, he wound up coming down the trunk of a smallish sapling only a few feet in front of me. He stopped about 6 feet off the ground to have a good look around and make sure nothing terrible was down there. Turns out, something terrible was down there! Me...He froze, looking dead at me. An intense staring contest ensued. Now I was an old hand at winning staring contests, and I figured a squirrel, being the nervous and jumpy sort, would be a piece of cake. He was sure tougher than I thought! Neither of us moved a muscle or blinked for several long minutes. Finally his squirrel nature got the better of him and he began to twitch his tail. This was a sure sign he was about to crack. Surprisingly, he had apparently decided whatever that ugly thing was, it was not keeping him from his breakfast. He jumped down and began foraging only a few feet away, stopping every few seconds to give me the stink eye. This created a small problem. While I certainly enjoyed watching him, I was now frozen in place. Already being suspicious, the slightest movement on my part would cause the squirrel to have an immediate and complete nervous breakdown. This would then alert every living creature in this whole neck of the woods. And deer do pay attention to alarmed squirrels. I figured he would feed on off, but instead he soon became fixated on me again. This time instead of a staring contest, he nervously approached to within about 5 feet. I could tell there was no going back now, he knew something was up, but the curiosity was simply more than he could bear. Might as well have a little fun I thought, so right as he was taking another tentative step towards me, I very suddenly jerked my hands up and went “Boo”. He jumped several feet straight up in the air, swapped ends, and began to run frantically. If he’d have been on the ground, he’d have really covered some distance! As it was, he had not gone anywhere but up, and then back down. Upon reaching the ground once again, and despite the fact that he’d gone nowhere, he now decided a direction change was in order. After a few feet, yet another direction change seemed like the thing to do. This went on for some time. That poor squirrel ran a mighty long way at a very frantic pace, to only end up about 10 feet further from me than when he started. He had finally come to rest on another sapling, about a foot off the ground and breathing like a race horse that had just run the Kentucky derby. At this point he seemed to remember that he could climb trees, and scrambled up the sapling and into the canopy. What a wonderful show! I felt very pleased with myself. That is until I noticed the 8 point staring at me from 60 yards away.....
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What a way to start the morning.... :coffee: :bigsmyl:
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Feeling like a fool, I froze in place. How much had he seen? Must have just caught a flicker of movement or he would already be gone. After a few tense moments, he twitched his tail and continued down the trail. Problem was, it was not the close trail he was taking, it was the farther trail that would take him past me at about 45 yards. That’s just too far for me. He was so majestic as he picked his was past me. Fat and shiny, he looked to be a 3 year old. It was the rut and I could see a few fresh scars on his head and neck from battle. His hocks were stained dark and wet. His walk had purpose, he was obviously on a mission. His focus on love is likely what had just saved me from spooking him. As I watched him pass from sight, my mind formed the plan. Slip back into the willows, hit the sandbar, and travel back up it, re enter the willows and intercept him where the two trails converged. It was a good plan with a solid chance of success, but I had no intention of doing it. Grandpa was about 200 yards up from that intersection and the buck was headed right for him. Instead, I crossed the hardwood bottom and hunted my way to spot on a ridge about 300 yards from grandpa's position. This took about half an hour. I settled into a comfortable position at the base of a huge red oak. I was so excited! That buck should be getting close to him by now. Easing back into my daydreams, I waited for the shot.
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It is not my intention to drag this out, and I apologize for any inconvenience. I generally only have about an hour in the evenings to write, if I’m lucky!
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You're doing just fine. Keep it up.
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What he said^^^^^!
Bisch
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:coffee:
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:thumbsup:
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More coffee... :coffee:
This is getting good!!! :bigsmyl:
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:campfire:
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I’m hooked!!! Waiting on more!!!
:campfire:
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Across the river, I could just barely hear the music of hounds chasing a deer. It was mid morning by now and the rest of the family would be on stands hoping the dogs would push a deer past them. Me and Grandpa had our own little drama going on over here. As I reflected, a sadness overcame me. Grandpa was in his 70s now, and I was old enough to realize that times like these were not going last for much longer. I thought of all the sacrifices he’d made for his family. How he was once a young man like myself, full of energy and dreams. Somewhere along the line, his dreams had turned to making the dreams of his family come true instead of his own. Quick to smile, he had a sharp wit and was a masterful storyteller. He never complained. He shunned praise and would give all the credit to God, yet when something went wrong, he alone accepted full responsibility, even if it was not his fault. Looking at the Bear recurve resting in my lap, I believed it to have been the greatest gift ever given me, but at that moment, I began to realize the greatest gift he’d ever given me was his shining example of what character and manhood should look like.
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Amen, and amen!
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I was concerned. The deer should have reached Grandpa by now, yet no shot rang out. There are no sure things in hunting. The deer could have taken another trail. The wind could have shifted and some fickle current may have betrayed my grandfathers presence. A million things could have went wrong. Feeling some disappointment, I decided to move up another 100 yards or so towards his position. As I was just getting to my feet, the deep bellow of Grandpa’s old 12 gauge broke the morning silence. The sound of the shot found its way to the opening of the river and made a peculiar crackling noise as it echoed down the channel. I’ll never forget that sound. I was suddenly beside myself with joy and excitement! I thought of his saying, “One shot meat, two shots maybe, three shots miss.” No sooner did this thought cross my mind, than the sound of a running deer coming from Grandpa’s direction could be heard. Suddenly, the 8 point materialized out of the brush. He was running flat out and directly towards me....
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This is amazing! Very elegant writing!
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God in his wisdom gives us some very useful natural instincts. Things that protect or help us without even having to think about it. Besides the ones given us naturally, we can also learn instincts. It generally takes a lot of time, effort and dedication to learn an instinct. Traditional archery falls into the category of instinctive endeavors, at least that is the goal. It must have been instinct that made me react the way I did. It seemed almost as if I was somehow watching the whole thing happen and not in control myself, like someone else was doing it. It all happened so fast. He was on me in an instant and passing by at a mere 10-12 yards. Luckily, he had turned off the afterburners and slowed to just a normal loping run. Somehow my fingers found the string and as he passed, I instinctively drew and released. I remember watching the arrow spin it’s way across the short distance between us and intercept the bounding buck, it’s bright red and yellow feathers disappearing very near the spot behind his shoulder that held my complete focus and concentration. Still in follow through position, I stood in frozen awe and watched him run another 40 yards with his lifeblood pouring out both sides. He suddenly pulled up on wobbly legs and came to a stop. After a few seconds of trying to keep his balance, he fell to his side and began his death throes. I stood there for a few more seconds, bow arm still out, still in follow through position, too stunned to react. What had just happened? Did grandpa miss? That was very unlikely. A smile came to my face as I thought of what the answer must be. Grandpa must have shot the deer and it had ran back towards me before going down. That would explain why it went down so fast. It did not however act like a wounded deer. I hurried to the downed buck to learn the truth...
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Buck down!!! Or 2....??? :coffee:
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Been sick the last few days... Sorry for the holdup. I’ll be back at it soon....
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Can’t wait for more!!!!
Bisch
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Great stuff. :thumbsup:
Deno
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Put another pot on.... :coffee:
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:campfire:
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:campfire:
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Have you ever wanted something to be a certain way so badly that you tried to will it into being? I wanted to find a buckshot wound so very much, I went over that buck with a fine toothed comb from hoof to horn, yet no evidence of any gunshot wound was to be found. Finally accepting that grandpa had just missed, I gave up and began to admire the buck. Fat and healthy, his shiny coat gleamed in the morning light. I carefully examined his rack. 8 points, almost perfectly symmetrical and about 15 inches wide, he was simply beautiful. It was a fine and memorable morning indeed, yet a touch of disappointment lingered. Grandpa would be thrilled I got the buck, but deep down, I wished it had been him. After field dressing the buck, I left him laying there and began to work my way to Grandpa. There was only a couple of hundred yards between us now. As I slowly picked my way through the woods, the mornings events ran through my mind. What a glorious blessing to be afield with my grandfather in pursuit of game. Even had not a single deer been seen, it would all be worth the effort. I once again became keenly aware that these hunts with grandpa could not go on forever. A tear came to my eye. I had now reached the ridge where I would signal to Grandpa. Before I let out the location whistle, I made myself a vow to thank God for every opportunity to go afield with the old man just over the ridge. My Bob White was answered immediately with another from over the ridge. This meant no deer were present and all was clear to come on in. Had there been a deer or something in front of him, his answer would have been the hen call of the Quail. Sounds kinda like “O wee a hoo”. I eased over the ridge and was immediately greeted with the sweet smell of Grandpa’s pipe. Never smoked myself, but always loved that sweet smell. The old man sat on a downed tree puffing on his pipe contentedly and watching me approach. You could see the quiet joy in him. The old shotgun was laid across the tree by his side with the action open. I walked up and told him that while he had missed the deer, I had gotten the buck as he fled. One eyebrow slowly lifted and a wry smile crossed his lips. He stared at me for a long second with wizened eyes and said, “Boy, I ain’t seen but one deer, and he’s laying right over there.” He made a pointing gesture with his pipe. Glaring intently, it took me a few seconds to see the massive set of horns sticking up in the brush about 60 yards away......
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:thumbsup: :clapper: :clapper: :goldtooth:
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There ya go!
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Pure awesomeness!!!!
Bisch
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Really enjoying your writing and glad you're feeling better.
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What Tom said :thumbsup:
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This is truly amazing. Not just the story itself, but your writing skills as well.
Thank you for sharing! :thumbsup:
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ENJOYED ::: Thanks for sharing :campfire:
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Next chapter please!