There was whiskey with sliced ginger. There were crisps. We got the party started. Someone died.
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He finished a second cinnamon roll, patted his flat stomach. Looked at the demitasse of black coffee in his right hand. Still half full, not still hot. He stood up ignoring the hand holds and wrote ‘C#rh€M’ on the nearest flout board. He added five lines of exotic symbols. The flout board verbalised his scrawl.(…)
Alan does not ‘do’ novels, but he sometimes thinks (wishes) to start one. Here are a few of his abandoned opening scenes. Jackdaw Jackdaw, Editor He pulled himself up by his own bootstraps and that seemed to go well enough. He looked around and saw that he was still lying on his back on the beach.(…)
Grunts and Moses is the name of this new group playing down at the swamp bar. We sort of listened to them while we took turns firing Chad’s new .22 pistol out through the open window at critters in the water. ‘It’s a Smith & Wesson Model 22A with a five and a half-inch barrel,’(…)
We are chipmunks, or we would be were we wiser,dashing hither dither darting till we die.We race telling stories none of us rememberhow often they were told or when or why.The wind stirs leaves we fancy are emotions.A truth on Monday Tuesday is a lie.We learn sharp nostalgia when we leave the nestthen forget that(…)
He invited her in for a shag and, because it was cold, and she fancied the chances of warming herself on warm rugs, and the forecast was bitter with blizzards and snowbanks foretold, she accepted and leapt in. Put off by his cumbersome hugs she cornered the market on freestanding chairs and sat down. ‘Where’s(…)
This is a fragment not included yet in the non-book Autonomous Rifle which Alan pretends to be writing (at). Jackdaw, Editor ‘Olding. Is that a nonce word or did you make it up?’ noose (not capitalised) asked the recumbent rifle. ‘What,’ answered AR-666, no interrogatory rise in its voice. It narrowed its eyes, in a(…)