Froomella was the granddaughter of the gals and the hound heckler of Chimney. She grew twice as much as a small pile of chair legs. This of course made it so when she jumped, she reached the carpet’s green apple tree.
Drextonia shook. A single feather survived and restored the republic. Froomella saw her own reflection in a piece of spider web.
I sometimes still yearn for the touch of a purple peanut. It is the creamy feeling of warm sin that deters me. Froomella is my drug now.
Froomella must be prepared with three eggs of water and half a dozen medium sized palm trees – the type that grows wooden swords. Stir gently. The taste of mediocrity is optional.
Sky-lasher caught up with us before the hedge with the berries that fall to the ground in June. He approved. But his conditions were of a certain aquamarine indication that Drextonia could do without but must be with. Greatness is the fallacy of the fifth undertaking of sugar.
Jeremiah came to me in a cart of ember. Froth was not the word. Rivers of pebbles and of coals, maybe. Froth, perhaps, only tomorrow.
“Hurry,” he whispered. “For the Pendog is as a piece of land after the altar boy held the hand of the pelican.”
With Nephilians at the walls of our castle of summoning, courage grew in our ears. But the eyes remained sleepy.
Did you know that cats and pigs change places at the beginning of each crescent moon? They do it when we search our soul for pecan pie.
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