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December 11, 2006
Yet more lines I've excised from my forthcoming novel
The priest set down the sandwich, grunted decisively, and skipped off.
"Spackle," the mother whispered, as she cradled her sleeping newborn. "We shall call you Spackle."
Her hair smelled of cinnamon and lies.
The river was wide and the horses extremely small.
As he stood there naked atop the shed, Harold couldn't help but wonder if he'd been tricked.
Posted by teb at December 11, 2006 10:52 AM