::: Short story :::

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She placed the point of her pencil on a white sheet of paper. Slowly as the leaves fell down in Autumn, there were worlds. There were flowers from an inner forest. There was a wolf hidden in the fog of those wide steppes. There were also rivers and musical streams all through path that have never being walked.

She closed her eyes and breathed. Her pencil was in charge so there were fairy tales, dragons and white horses. There were trees growing up high to reach the clouds. There were maps, ships and whales. There were waves that made perfect curls.

But then, there were cataclysms, earthquakes, floods and storms. There was an overwhelming upheaval all over. Thunders crossed the thick silence of the room. It was the eraser working.

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(by María Magdalena Ziegler)

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