sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

There was a yawning hole in the center of the floor and a small bucket of fried chicken sitting neatly by the edge, just above what would have been the downstairs neighbours' television.
Said television was now sitting in the living room of the flat two storeys down. As was much of the contents of Fob's office and the flat just below. A few large chunks of the ceiling of his office were also down in the flat two floors below.

The last time someone had pulled that trick his office was displaced to the floor below, the room directly below displaced to the room below that, and so on until two floors of contents mixed and mingled in a dusty pile in the lobby, effectively blocking the elevator, which didn't work most days, anyway. Now that was classy, he had to give them

Fob sat at his desk, and he played with the pen Helen had given him a long, long time ago. He'd never used it to write, but he liked it's weight, and he had a fantasy about someday using the thing to save his life. It was that sort of pen.

Miles away, outside the city and in the middle of the eighth hole, one that involved far too much water for her taste, Helen was watching a man chase a squirrel around the greens with his clubs. Now, as awkward as that might sound, it appeared moreso, watching the person-sized squirrel with a bag of clubs slung and bouncing over his shoulder while the man in tasteful khakis and a collared shirt ran after him.

Sergeant Dunne was knee deep in just one of the water hazards on the eighth, warily looking around for snakes and crocodiles.
"For pete's sake, Dunne, there are no crocodiles in this country, let alone in that pond." He was the sort of man you'd call Dunne, as well.
With a schlurping sound, he pulled free.

And if anybody'd been paying attention, the first star of the evening came out.

disclaimer:
Ah HA! We were joking! This week is decidedly not the travelogue!

Makes it sort of tough to plan your weeks in advance, doesn't it?

This is a very brief excerpt from William Murphy's Curious, a novel.

This is a very brief disclaimer.



		archives horoscopes accessories contacts theatre fables home Search Sane: [A Note on My.Netscape.Com]		Hoo Ha There was a yawning hole in the center of the floor and a small bucket of fried chicken sitting neatly by the edge, just above what would have been the downstairs neighbours' television. Said television was now sitting in the living room of the flat two storeys down. As was much of the contents of Fob's office and the flat just below. A few large chunks of the ceiling of his office were also down in the flat two floors below. The last time someone had pulled that trick his office was displaced to the floor below, the room directly below displaced to the room below that, and so on until two floors of contents mixed and mingled in a dusty pile in the lobby, effectively blocking the elevator, which didn't work most days, anyway. Now that was classy, he had to give them Fob sat at his desk, and he played with the pen Helen had given him a long, long time ago. He'd never used it to write, but he liked it's weight, and he had a fantasy about someday using the thing to save his life. It was that sort of pen. Miles away, outside the city and in the middle of the eighth hole, one that involved far too much water for her taste, Helen was watching a man chase a squirrel around the greens with his clubs. Now, as awkward as that might sound, it appeared moreso, watching the person-sized squirrel with a bag of clubs slung and bouncing over his shoulder while the man in tasteful khakis and a collared shirt ran after him. Sergeant Dunne was knee deep in just one of the water hazards on the eighth, warily looking around for snakes and crocodiles. "For pete's sake, Dunne, there are no crocodiles in this country, let alone in that pond." He was the sort of man you'd call Dunne, as well. With a schlurping sound, he pulled free. And if anybody'd been paying attention, the first star of the evening came out. disclaimer: Ah HA! We were joking! This week is decidedly not the travelogue! Makes it sort of tough to plan your weeks in advance, doesn't it? This is a very brief excerpt from William Murphy's Curious, a novel. This is a very brief disclaimer.


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