Excerpts

On the fateful Monday, Stefan sat at his desk in his inner sanctum, turned on the computer, opened a Word Perfect file, and stared at the screen. While his anxious fingers dusted the keys, waiting for the flow of words to come, our writer entered the labyrinth of his mind, searching for the room with all the stories he had stored over the years. He wandered along meandering paths; he followed one fork in the road, retraced his steps, investigated another, penetrating further and further into a paralyzing darkness until, a few minutes after five o’clock, Lily’s gentle tapping on the door brought him out of his misery.
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Mrs. Lavie had severed the umbilical cord and, her raging fists striking at the emptiness, she had cursed Death out loud. But Death was not afraid of Mrs. Lavie either.
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That young hippy guy down the street, I hear he makes it his hobby to teach the neighbourhood squirrels how to swim under water, but he prides himself on bein’ a bad teacher.
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I had once heard grandma say to Mrs. Wainfleet that Dirty Mrs. Lepine never washed her windows or swept her front porch. Dirty Mrs. Lepine was busy pushing one of those pink worms that had fallen off her cracker and onto the rug.
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Unfortunately, our friend had a practiced skill for holding the podium until our boredom could hardly be disguised.
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“Here,” he said, and handed the keys to Carrick. “Put your bags in the caravan and come and have a beer in the hoose after.” He had his foot between the door and the frame, and was still trying to calm the dog down with his right hand. He must have noticed Carrick’s apprehension.
“Don’t worry about him; I’ll put him in his cage right now.” And turning to the Alsatian, he said, “Killer, sit!"
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"What a pity!" Justinia had said. She repeated the same words each time she came. "What a tragedy! It's just so sad to see him lying there like that. You must be devastated, Mrs. Roberts. I am so sorry." And Mr. Fulcum had recited more or less the same platitudes.