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microfiction 

Grok came and sat with me by the fire, his heavy-set brow furrowed.
“We have to talk about these inventions of yours.” He glanced over at the wheeled toy his toddler was rolling on the ground. “They don’t seem … useful.”
I ignored him, continuing to whittle away woodchips from my super-wheel, round in every dimension. Grok pointed at the sphere. “I mean, whose child is going to want to play with that?”
Just then, the wolves howled in the dark, so nearby.
“Theirs,” I said.

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Welcome to thundertoot! A Mastodon Instance for 'straya