Talk to G David Schwartz on the Fictionville blog
A burglar, face-sharpened to a husk of a man wrapped in a beer of burley
faced coat around his shoulders sauntered slowly, slowly to the long
marble primed box of a death which occurred out side just out the window that so
many people had sat before. Before what, you ask? (But if you were asking why
is it I that put these marks ("} on the page? It was before…
Before what, I ask again?
It was long before I had purchased a nice little house in west Virginia
not the state "West Virginia" but in the west (Small "W") of Virginia.
To be exact, I stopped in an Inn in town of Pulaski, which is on highway 81.
And it is funny down there that it is west of West Virginia, which is
blundering over it up north. You may have to look at a map the see that I really am
making sense.
There once was an earthquake in the beer shop but no one came to unlight
the sprinkling kilo. In any event, it was a happy event. Starring at a knot of
knotted wood would have made Dostoyevsky happy. Over the maple pine
portion of the possible partite out side of the outside was a thought looking to be
had.
Pounce people prudently put plaster pagers parting palpable but pleasing
pleasures partly parading past pleasant parts parading partly… (We
interpret this pieced of paper to say, "Man I'm glad he stopped doing what ever he
thought he was doing)
Just on the table next to the wall, which surrounded the entire bag of
munch we begin a new with a new thought which was huffed from a gruff voice
very vocal in a way which was slumbering with the simple speeded song as if
someone was saying or someone had or has once said, " One of the bar, oh, tender
sniffling the sniveling shoulder busman fill filthy fiery flossy flukes
were washed up in a grizzly hug henpecked into eyes above a mouth which said.
"Yes, sir," and then sauntered down the road of joy.