All right, and seventeen cents
Oct. 22nd, 2006 11:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
todayiamadaisyLately I've been getting all my spam from the Israeli Brokerage Agency (it's the only place to get it, darling). The Agency is apparently keen to offer me "PART TIME WORK!!", but inside the email is a different story. Literally. I've been cutting and pasting the email contents as research for a science-fiction spam story, and reading the messages one after the other I realised they form a surreal, but ongoing, narrative. It's the story of Paul, a frustrated novelist, and Annie, his supportive wife. One of them (Paul, I think) has killed someone.
Episode I: Citron
It should have been a cheery kitchen but wasn't. anti axe It was raspberry jam or raspberry filling, not blood.
His usual procedure when it was necessary to HAVE AN IDEA was to put on his coat and go for a walk. Yes, he knew he had heard nothing. She closed the door. "You're going to have to write faster, Paul,»she said. Yes. It doesn't matter, Paul, he told himself again and again in those last few days before the Royal coughed up first its t and then its e, the damned thing is almost done. If you really think people who can write stories can talk worth a damn, you never watched some poor slob of a novelist fumbling his way through an interview on the Today show. citron
Episode II: Argon
He felt her tugging, pulling. bulwark churchwoman ""All right, and seventeen cents.
""Yes,»she said absently, as if this was a foregone conclusion — and Paul supposed it was. ""Tell the truth, Paul. ""All right,»Annie said. It was his first real smile in months, radiant and genuine. More important, no Swiss Army knife. She spent nearly half an hour hosing blood off the mower and driveway and the side lawn, while interlinked rainbows glimmered in the spray. Paul bumped over the lintel, and then the chair's hard rubber wheels rolled smoothly over the tiles. argon
Episode III: Anguish
Shed! bell annihilate It would put you back, Paul.
I put his clothes in a plastic bag and wrapped the body in sheets and took everything out to that dry wash on Route 9 after dark. The idol only tottered. The Annie in him knew. and infinite magic. Blood ran down his face in streams. "As soon as she was out of the room he was reaching behind him, bringing out the boxes and stuffing them under the mattress one by one. If she went to town in a dress, she carried a big, clunky purse — the sort of purse maiden aunts tote to church jumble sales. anguish
Anguish, indeed.
Episode I: Citron
It should have been a cheery kitchen but wasn't. anti axe It was raspberry jam or raspberry filling, not blood.
His usual procedure when it was necessary to HAVE AN IDEA was to put on his coat and go for a walk. Yes, he knew he had heard nothing. She closed the door. "You're going to have to write faster, Paul,»she said. Yes. It doesn't matter, Paul, he told himself again and again in those last few days before the Royal coughed up first its t and then its e, the damned thing is almost done. If you really think people who can write stories can talk worth a damn, you never watched some poor slob of a novelist fumbling his way through an interview on the Today show. citron
Episode II: Argon
He felt her tugging, pulling. bulwark churchwoman ""All right, and seventeen cents.
""Yes,»she said absently, as if this was a foregone conclusion — and Paul supposed it was. ""Tell the truth, Paul. ""All right,»Annie said. It was his first real smile in months, radiant and genuine. More important, no Swiss Army knife. She spent nearly half an hour hosing blood off the mower and driveway and the side lawn, while interlinked rainbows glimmered in the spray. Paul bumped over the lintel, and then the chair's hard rubber wheels rolled smoothly over the tiles. argon
Episode III: Anguish
Shed! bell annihilate It would put you back, Paul.
I put his clothes in a plastic bag and wrapped the body in sheets and took everything out to that dry wash on Route 9 after dark. The idol only tottered. The Annie in him knew. and infinite magic. Blood ran down his face in streams. "As soon as she was out of the room he was reaching behind him, bringing out the boxes and stuffing them under the mattress one by one. If she went to town in a dress, she carried a big, clunky purse — the sort of purse maiden aunts tote to church jumble sales. anguish
Anguish, indeed.
