Short Stories
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Walking to the post office was a very different experience these days. A year ago there had been little to summon his attention away from the wearisome preoccupations of his mind as he ground his zimmer into the pavement. Head down, so determined his neck strained and pulsed continuously, he would drag his body down
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I don’t talk like this. Lets get that right, straight off the bat. I don’t write like this neither. I don’t know all the fancy words this nonce Tarquin writes with. Any embellishments he makes that dont look like me, is him. Right there see, there’s a word I would never say, not in a
Far From The Madding Crowd 