The Chromophilliac Conquistadors
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There is a heavy cotton sack hanging from her right hand and a day-old sunburn across the tip of her nose. Her pant legs are soaked well past the knees; a sure sign of hours wading through the surf. A late afternoon zephyr blows hair into her eyes, pelicans skim the water, and the tide has begun it's eastward creep.
When you ask "what have you found?" she smiles wryly and gives the sack a shake. "Buried treasure, ancient history, ancestor wares." Then she reaches not into the sack, but into a pocket, hand sticky from too much salt water, and produces the single most perfect shard in all of the earth.
"But this one is my favorite."
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Fluttering into the Shop right now!