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What follows is fiction.

He is a little older, a little more aware, a little wiser. He never grew especially taller, nor grew more than thin wisps of straight, black hair; the marks of the child he was are as clear as his yellowish skin, but somehow he does not look sallow, does not look sickly. He is who he is. He understands that. He's grown into it.

He had adventures, for a surprisingly long time; it had seemed like a forever-childhood, one where everything that could have happened to him — friendship, puppy love, heartbreak, warmth, family, quizzical looks from so many who didn't quite "get" him — occurred. He has stories. He is, now, at last, ready to tell them.

He sits down at his computer, smiles wistfully, and types




WHERE I AM A VIKING
a novel
Ralph Wiggum

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