Tuesday, 30 January 2007

From "Once, Maybe"

By Ogden Nashberry.

[...] Maybe. But what with the parakeet always yammering, I couldn't
practise the bassoon anyways, so what was the point? The sky
had come out and looked nice, floating around like an old sweater.
Buns arrived, heaps of them, but nothing you could call 'a person'.
Nothing you could tell your endlessly ugly nephews and nieces back home on
the farm, where things, already, were starting [...]

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