“Why doesn’t father want me to hunt?” Gair asked suddenly. “Why is Eitri at his right hand? I’m his son.”
For the first time, Bragi’s face fell, and a cautious light leapt into his kind eyes.
“I do not say it is the right thing,” he said, "but I would also say to not ask such a thing – at least, not yet. Do you want a second wounding, by making your father repeat his words?”
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How's this for six sentences?ReplyDelete
"Later that year, the erstwhile citizens of the town of Appleboro, Mississippi -- "The Rootinest Tooniest Town West of the Pecos," which incidentally was both overwrought and factually inaccurate -- would learn to call that wild, apple-crazy October "Bloody October."
It actually began in late September -- the leaves had not yet begun to turn on the yellow-ribbon-festooned sycamores and weeping willows, and the khakhi-wearing, tow-headed students of Samuel W. Sackhorn Elementary school dutifully returned to their old-fashioned desks, replete with long-dry inkwells and frantic and obscene imperatives scrawled in azure Bic-Stic, to learn algebra and functionally useless geometry from cancer-ridden old Len Ghastly.
It was, in fact, Mr. Ghastly who first found the bodies of Tommy Bedfellows and Erma Vera O'Brien down in Riley Gulch. He was the son of Bodunk "Red" Bedfellows, cuckolded owner of Appleboro's largest (and single) towing company, she the hectored and latently psychic daughter of Eva Braun Shoeshingle Birchkringle Vera O'Brien, heir to the famous Hard Drinkin' O'Brien ale fortune. The two of them had often been seen up on Scrimshaw Point, tongue-wrestling and occasionally getting to second base. Everyone knew they would be getting married before too long."
Speaking of too long, those sentences...
You. Crack. Me. Up.Delete
Next entry for some flash fiction, perchance? ;-)