Genga No, Agh I
"No! Say mache! Genga no, agh I greygoomsma! Goosma!"
He would have none of it. Her forked tongue spoke no evil, begged no truth but, truth be told, she was a haggler of the devil's business and had stashed away somewhere, the gold-gilded card to prove it: Daniele Kleismann 'Purveyor of all things sinful'. There were anxious moments to follow, to be sure - small grunts at the straining, pygmy noises of shifting fabrics rubbing up against each other, if only to keep warm, a teensy, weensy squawk requesting a breath or two, maybe a gale force wind of some kind - however, a cat may catch as a cat may, so he was neither abiding nor fair, just playing with the prey in a little truth or dare, "How many fingers?" She unsquinched an eye open but in this light just couldn't tell. "Okay, I'll make it a little easier for you," he splayed himself flatter and wider against her body frame, clasping the duvet with both hands and digging his knees into the mattress, "What was Nash the Slash's real name?" He jerked forward with all his weight, "and it wasn't Jeff."
-excerpt from Untitled Part 4 (Untitled Part 4), from the book entitled:The Smell of Whiskey
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Conjured up, forged into existence and then inexplicably belched out at the dinner table - quickly followed by an unostentatious hand to the mouth and a reticent and bashful, "'Scuse me", for Cat's August challenge over at Kreative People: ~Denim Blues and Leather
"Sometimes, art arrives in the most unusual ways"
____________________________________________
Finally, this little ditty seems rather appropriate here: 'Phasors on Stun' - FM (feat. Nash the Slash)
*And before anyone fires off an email or such, in regards to the above... yes, I know, it is intentional.
Genga No, Agh I
"No! Say mache! Genga no, agh I greygoomsma! Goosma!"
He would have none of it. Her forked tongue spoke no evil, begged no truth but, truth be told, she was a haggler of the devil's business and had stashed away somewhere, the gold-gilded card to prove it: Daniele Kleismann 'Purveyor of all things sinful'. There were anxious moments to follow, to be sure - small grunts at the straining, pygmy noises of shifting fabrics rubbing up against each other, if only to keep warm, a teensy, weensy squawk requesting a breath or two, maybe a gale force wind of some kind - however, a cat may catch as a cat may, so he was neither abiding nor fair, just playing with the prey in a little truth or dare, "How many fingers?" She unsquinched an eye open but in this light just couldn't tell. "Okay, I'll make it a little easier for you," he splayed himself flatter and wider against her body frame, clasping the duvet with both hands and digging his knees into the mattress, "What was Nash the Slash's real name?" He jerked forward with all his weight, "and it wasn't Jeff."
-excerpt from Untitled Part 4 (Untitled Part 4), from the book entitled:The Smell of Whiskey
____________________________________________
Conjured up, forged into existence and then inexplicably belched out at the dinner table - quickly followed by an unostentatious hand to the mouth and a reticent and bashful, "'Scuse me", for Cat's August challenge over at Kreative People: ~Denim Blues and Leather
"Sometimes, art arrives in the most unusual ways"
____________________________________________
Finally, this little ditty seems rather appropriate here: 'Phasors on Stun' - FM (feat. Nash the Slash)
*And before anyone fires off an email or such, in regards to the above... yes, I know, it is intentional.