Re: Cowboy and The Stuttering Werewolf 1660 words
Pensandpad
unless you're interested in this one small animal, sometimes quite
vicious, that makes its home in the bushes. It's a scruffy little thing
with fleas and often smells of whatever nasty mess it's been rolling
in.
Stephen King /The Washington Post
jeffjewettcopyright2006
Cowboy and The Stuttering Werewolf
By Jeffrey Jewett
On US-Route 395, Floyd Patterson hitched from his home of Carson City,
Nevada, to just past Reno in less than two hours. From the Nevada
boarder he would cross through California's northwestern tip and head
into Canada.
"Four rides on my first day. Quite right," Floyd said.
Thirty-five hundred dollars, the total granted from his mother's
life-insurance was buried deep inside his blue jeans pocket. Canada
was where the 395 ended and his new life would begin. Ignoring his
mother's endless encouragement -it's quite right, she had
promised-- after Floyd had wasted four years slaving over a novel, a
western that received devastating letters of rejection, poisoning and
killing his muse, he landed a job aboard a Canadian fishing vessel.
Freed from ambition, his soul felt liberated, but with every step on
the 395, his conscience spoke in his mother's voice. Floyd,
everything is quite right.
Treaded miles.
Lifting his thumb toward an on-coming eighteen-wheeler, a long, loud
honk blared as the big-rig rumbled past.
Finally, a Mercedes pulled over. The shirtless driver wore sunglasses,
Daisy-Dukes and a baseball cap.
"Gotta girlfriend," the driver asked.
"Nope," Floyd replied.
With pouncing eyes, the driver smiled, "Hop in."
"Next time," Floyd said.
After the driver remarked with a singsong tone, "Something's in the
closet," he sped away.
Treaded miles.
Like a thin strip of black tape placed across a large, sand-colored
horizio, the 395 separated majestic mountains, lakes and rivers into
eastern and western views that were postcard perfect. Cactus and
Joshua trees stood like spectators at a rock concert, an October desert
wind hummed like a bass violin.
"If Google Earth was to zoom down with a God's eye perspective,
I'd be but a speck in the center of nothingness and marked by a
symbol of freedom," Floyd shouted at purple cirrus clouds, "Mother,
watch me grow!"
Jacinda Patterson died from colon cancer at Tahoe Community Hospital,
which she could not afford. Even after the Fail-Safe Insurance Policy
that she maintained delivered everything the small print guaranteed,
her only concern was for Floyd. "Write," she demanded. With
swollen knuckles, she affectionately placed a withered hand against his
brow, brushing dreadlocks from his eyes. "Something's always been
inside you. As a baby, you'd try and force it onto paper with
crayons," her defiant smile a battalion's last reserve.
"Write," she pleaded. "Be ready when that story comes. Bad
happens, but I promise, those will be the best parts of your story.
--Write."
Quite right: a phrase they had used to remind one another that bad
things always worked out.
A red Camry zoomed past. Securing the backpack over his shoulder,
rubbing his bristly cheek against his other shoulder, he kicked rocks
and walked with the certainty that bad things ended okay.
After nightfall, however, the 395 glowed eerily under the full moon's
silver illumination. Darkness, like stage curtains, closed off
everything magnificent, casting Floyd onto an ominous highway of
uncertainty. Drivers too paranoid to stop passed less frequently. He
began to worry until a battered 1970 white Chevy pick-up pulled over
and within unsettled sand and car exhaust; two taillights radiated
fiery red embers like deliverance of hope from a promise kept.
"Hank Solomon," the driver announced.
"Floyd. Friends call me Cowboy. I'm going as far as the 395."
Hank slid a sketchpad on the passenger seat closer to his side, then
leaned over and opened the passenger door. A thermos, parfait cup, and
plastic take-out bags lay discarded on the truck's floor. Lingering
aromas of pancakes and maple syrup mingled with acrylic paint.
Classical music chimed. Hank regarded Floyd's hat and changed the
radio to a preset country station.
"I'm a watercolorist. Been up and down the 395, stealing sceneries
and such. You're a writer, eh?" Hank's nose wrinkled.
"Who'd you loose?"
"Loose?"
"Somebody die of cancer?"
"My mother, three days ago."
"Sorry to hear that. Sorrier to inform that you've got it too."
"I've got what?"
"Lost my family, outlived them... Been on my own since 1910...You
ever watched that television show..."
Floyd interrupted, asking if he had meant military time, but Hank's
mouth ran like the Chevy's engine. He contributed his 'yes-sirs-
and- uh-huhs' in all the right spots, but Floyd was beat as Hank's
truck. Reclining, he feigned attentiveness; the hat tilted over his
eyes, Floyd sighed and offered what every driver needed, a friendly
ear.
Miles passed after the long straight road began to wind high into the
northwestern forests of Bear Valley California.
"Last year made ninety-six thousand selling paintings...I'm a
werewolf...Gas prices are due to..."
Floyd's eyes opened with an audible click as the full moon ducked
behind a bend and peeked back up.
"Relax," Hank continued. "Werewolves don't have the pedigree
you see in the movies."
Slyly, Floyd regarded the unlatched lock.
"Son." Hank cautioned, "You're not ready to hop out at this
velocity, at least not yet. Besides, we're ugly --not killers.
Shucks kid, I'm a painter. I owe all success to my critter. No
fear, no inhibitions -the real demons that make prisoner of
everything artistic. Yep. That crap is flushed away like after eating
too many prunes." Hank giggled. "Let me ask, you any good at
writing?"
No, Floyd thought, as he now feigned sleep, waiting for the chance to
break.
"Suppose you could enhance your... inspiration?"
Moments without reply, Hank added, "And live without cancer."
He's mocked mama. Abruptly Floyd sat up and demanded, "I want
out."
"Okey-dokey." Hank slowed the Chevy, pulling over where headlights
beamed on the gloomy, tree-shadowed road. Promptly opening the door,
Floyd grabbed his pack and stepped onto pine-needled earth when Hank
grabbed him by the collar, smiled good-bye, and extended a hand.
Reluctantly, Floyd accepted and Hank's grip became increasingly
unyielding.
"Would you?" Hank asked with finality.
"Would I what?"
"Would you enhance that thing that artist use?"
"Yeah, I ..." Hank suddenly leaned over, bit Floyd's wrist,
pulling him back into the cab as the truck's door slammed shut by the
jolt of takeoff. Hank guffawed.
"My hat!"
"What's under that hat is all you'll ever need!" Hank snorted.
Floyd tugged his sleeve over the bite wound on his wrist to prevent
blood from spilling into his lap while roaring, "I want out!"
"Tell you what talent is." Hank drove pleasurably. "It's
enhanced sensitivity. Musicians have enhanced hearing. A chef, taste.
Good watercolorist, a keen eye." Hank glanced at Floyd and winked.
"You name it. All comes down to sensitivity. That's talent. And
what's enhanced sensitivity but an animal's instinct?" Hank
bellowed with laughter.
"Please..." Floyd whined.
"Hey now! That first letter of the word you just uttered, it gets
my creative juices flowing. You'll discover whatever sets you off,
but by me, it's that exact letter. Say..."
As though Hank had an epiphany, the corners of his mouth stretched
unnaturally high. Floyd perceived it a pernicious grin and gasped.
"Wanna meet him?"
When he regarded pitch-black beyond the unlatched lock, where a whoosh
issued from a minuscule crack in the rolled up window, Floyd moaned.
"Aw c'mon." Hank pleaded, "P-P-P...um, P-P-P..." Seemingly
frustrated by the inarticulate mispronunciation of the word
'please,' Hank's eyes squeezed shut then opened to reveal dilated
black pupils centered within luminescent yellow irises.
With his mouth agape, Floyd pushed his back against the passenger door
and screamed.
"I'll get it..." Hank growled. "P-P-Pluuuuh..." Like a
gunshot, a pop issued from nowhere. Hank hunched over the steering
wheel that he held with one hand, then tenderly placed his other hand
atop the sketchpad that lay near his side.
"P-P-P..."
Fearing that Hank's driving would turn reckless, Floyd offered
assistance.
"P-pineapple?"
"NO!" Hank abruptly replied, his voice echoic and throaty,
"pluh-pluh..."
"Forget it, go to the next letter." Floyd cried, "Try Q!"
With a single shake, Hank expressed no by vigorously jerking his head
left then returning it with a snap, and with teeth that reminded
Floyd of the Subway Sandwich commercial, 'eat fresh,' a
tooth-infested snout inflated like a clown's balloon trick. He
watched as Hank's ear morphed into a sharp cat's ear, sprouting
then rotating toward Floyd like a radar dish, as though Hank was all
ears for an opinion on the current events. _Now_ he's listening,
Floyd thought, when he lifted the door handle, and before tumbling
backwards into the night like a diver off a boat, a piercing howl
filled the truck's cab like a loud, long honk from a rumbling
eighteen-wheeler.
With bright blue-sky above wind blown branches of pine trees, where
beams of sunlight sifted thorough fell on and off his face, Floyd
opened his eyes. Sounds of bullfrogs, birdsongs, and a creek's
tinkle filled his ears. He lay on his back, scratching at dirt with
his fingernails, and then wiggled both feet. Alive, he slowly sat up
and spat.
"I guess that ended alright."
And Floyd giggled.
Mistakenly he had thought Hank's frustration was a result rom his
inarticulation of whatever P word he had tried to pronounce. Floyd too
discovered inarticulacy at saying a phrase that his mother had forever
used as endless encouragement, the phrase that meant never give up, for
everything bad ended all right --quite right. However, the feeling was
not frustration, but rather an overwhelming surge of inspiration that
incinerated all fear and doubt, like bombs crashing on ancient
mountains, which demolished all but the horizon: the line in the
furthest distance where the land and sea seems to meet the sky, where
roads, like thin strips of back tape, Floyd treaded miles.
Pop!
Anopheles
"Pensandpad" <pensa...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> There's a mystery about creative writing, but it's a boring mystery
> unless you're interested in this one small animal, sometimes quite
> vicious, that makes its home in the bushes. It's a scruffy little thing
> with fleas and often smells of whatever nasty mess it's been rolling
> in.
>
> Stephen King /The Washington Post
>
>
>
>
>
>
> jeffjewettcopyright2006
>
>
>
>
> Cowboy and The Stuttering Werewolf
> By Jeffrey Jewett
>
>
> On US-Route 395, Floyd Patterson hitched from his home of Carson City,
> Nevada, to just past Reno in less than two hours. From the Nevada
> boarder he would cross through California's northwestern tip and head
> into Canada.
Don't you need to tell us exactly where this Nevada boarder dude was
standing?
Anyway, after "passing through California's northwestern tip" it's still a
very long way to Canada. Over two states.
> "Four rides on my first day. Quite right," Floyd said.
>
> Thirty-five hundred dollars, the total granted from his mother's
> life-insurance was buried deep inside his blue jeans pocket. Canada
> was where the 395 ended and his new life would begin. Ignoring his
> mother's endless encouragement -it's quite right, she had
> promised-- after Floyd had wasted four years slaving over a novel, a
> western that received devastating letters of rejection, poisoning and
> killing his muse, he landed a job aboard a Canadian fishing vessel.
The above needs breaking up into several sentences and made more coherent.
Maybe think of whether you really need all of it.
> Freed from ambition, his soul felt liberated, but with every step on
> the 395, He was walking????
>his conscience spoke in his mother's voice. Floyd,
> everything is quite right. Do you mean "quite alright?"
>
> Treaded miles.
OK, he is walking. Why not make that clearer earlier?
> Lifting his thumb toward an on-coming eighteen-wheeler, a long, loud
> honk blared as the big-rig rumbled past.
>
> Finally, a Mercedes pulled over. The shirtless driver wore sunglasses,
> Daisy-Dukes and a baseball cap.
>
> "Gotta girlfriend," the driver asked.
>
> "Nope," Floyd replied.
>
> With pouncing eyes, the driver smiled, "Hop in."
>
> "Next time," Floyd said.
>
> After the driver remarked with a singsong tone, "Something's in the
> closet," he sped away.
>
> Treaded miles.
>
> Like a thin strip of black tape placed across a large, sand-colored
> horizio, (horizon) the 395 separated majestic mountains, lakes and rivers
> into
> eastern and western views that were postcard perfect. Cactus and
> Joshua trees stood like spectators at a rock concert, an October desert
> wind hummed like a bass violin.
Now, wait a goddamned minute. Joshua trees and cactus? In Oregon? Now you've
jumped to the other end of the 295 but you need to tell us.
> "If Google Earth was to zoom down with a God's eye perspective,
> I'd be but a speck in the center of nothingness and marked by a
> symbol of freedom," Floyd shouted at purple cirrus clouds, "Mother,
> watch me grow!"
>
> Jacinda Patterson died from colon cancer at Tahoe Community Hospital,
> which she could not afford. Even after the Fail-Safe Insurance Policy
> that she maintained delivered everything the small print guaranteed,
> her only concern was for Floyd. "Write," she demanded. With
> swollen knuckles, she affectionately placed a withered hand against his
> brow, brushing dreadlocks from his eyes. "Something's always been
> inside you. As a baby, you'd try and force it onto paper with
> crayons," her defiant smile a battalion's last reserve.
> "Write," she pleaded. "Be ready when that story comes. Bad
> happens, but I promise, those will be the best parts of your story.
> --Write."
>
> Quite right: a phrase they had used to remind one another that bad
> things always worked out.
> A red Camry zoomed past. Securing the backpack over his shoulder,
> rubbing his bristly cheek against his other shoulder, he kicked rocks
> and walked with the certainty that bad things ended okay.
>
> After nightfall, however, the 395 glowed eerily under the full moon's
> silver illumination. Darkness, like stage curtains, closed off
> everything magnificent, casting Floyd onto an ominous highway of
> uncertainty.
You're trying too hard here, JJ.
>Drivers too paranoid to stop passed less frequently.
Does this mean more non-paranoids were stopping or not?
>He
> began to worry until a battered 1970 white Chevy pick-up pulled over
> and within unsettled sand and car exhaust; two taillights radiated
> fiery red embers like deliverance of hope from a promise kept.
JJ, read the above several times and think if it might be made more powerful
if you moderated this urge to put on a poetic style.
This moon was full of grog, right? How else to explain it "ducking". It's
good that you're stretching your imagination with new ways of describing
things,, but have them match the natural ability of the "thing". A moon can
"slide" because when you travem it appears to do so, but "duck"?
>
> "Relax," Hank continued. "Werewolves don't have the pedigree
> you see in the movies."
>
> Slyly, Floyd regarded the unlatched lock.
>
>
> "Son.(,)" Hank cautioned, "You're not ready to hop out at this
Hank drove pleasurably. (meaning?)
Alexandra
I had written a detailed critique for you, but then I got an error when
I tried to submit it.
So I'll just give you some quick thoughts.
Kind of a fun parable/tale. I think you should go for irony, however.
Dive deeply in the sea of humanity; you'll find loads of irony. I
strongly suggest you read Flannery O'Connor, who was the queen of irony
in the 20th century. Read "A Good Man is Hard to Find." You might find
it posted somewhere online. I know that "Everything That Rises Must
Converge" is somewhere online for free. That's a great one too.
Your writing is like a good percussion section. There's never an
offbeat moment. That's a real gift, as I spend hours keeping my beats
in sync. But at times you overreach with metaphors (as Barry said about
the tail lights). Just describe the scene in your mind's eye. Also,
don't use postcard references to describe scenery. It's lazy. Again,
think about how the scenery looks in your mind and describe it. It
won't come fast to you. You might labor over it for several days before
it's just right.
With some work, Jeff, you're going to be published. Write every day.
Don't wait to be inspired. Some days you'll be tinkering and revising
and rethinking and agonizing over metaphors, and other days a thousand
words will come out of your fingers.
I think you should read poetry if you love language. Browse the poetry
section in your library or bookstore and find what interests you. Pore
over the poems like they're songs you have to listen to again and
again. Memorize lines you like.
Cheers,
Alex
Jeff Jewett
Anopheles wrote:
> "Pensandpad" <pensa...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> > There's a mystery about creative writing, but it's a boring mystery
> > unless you're interested in this one small animal, sometimes quite
> > vicious, that makes its home in the bushes. It's a scruffy little thing
> > with fleas and often smells of whatever nasty mess it's been rolling
> > in.
> >
> > Stephen King /The Washington Post
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > jeffjewettcopyright2006
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > Cowboy and The Stuttering Werewolf
> > By Jeffrey Jewett
> >
> >
> > On US-Route 395, Floyd Patterson hitched from his home of Carson City,
> > Nevada, to just past Reno in less than two hours. From the Nevada
> > boarder he would cross through California's northwestern tip and head
> > into Canada.
>
> Don't you need to tell us exactly where this Nevada boarder dude was
> standing?
Yes. Thanks.
> Anyway, after "passing through California's northwestern tip" it's still a
> very long way to Canada. Over two states.
Sheesh, I can hardly operate Google Earth, and I should not have needed
Google Earth to know that. Fuck!
>
> > "Four rides on my first day. Quite right," Floyd said.
> >
> > Thirty-five hundred dollars, the total granted from his mother's
> > life-insurance was buried deep inside his blue jeans pocket. Canada
> > was where the 395 ended and his new life would begin. Ignoring his
> > mother's endless encouragement -it's quite right, she had
> > promised-- after Floyd had wasted four years slaving over a novel, a
> > western that received devastating letters of rejection, poisoning and
> > killing his muse, he landed a job aboard a Canadian fishing vessel.
>
> The above needs breaking up into several sentences and made more coherent.
> Maybe think of whether you really need all of it.
It was orginally Cowboy and The Stuttering P Werewolf. As if Floyd, who
will get stuck with Q, were to bite someone, they''d get stuck saying
R. I think I need an orgin of 'quite right,' that motivates Floyd to
say it. And conflict.
> > Freed from ambition, his soul felt liberated, but with every step on
> > the 395, He was walking????
> >his conscience spoke in his mother's voice. Floyd,
> > everything is quite right. Do you mean "quite alright?"
> >
> > Treaded miles.
> OK, he is walking. Why not make that clearer earlier?
WIll do, thanks.
> > Lifting his thumb toward an on-coming eighteen-wheeler, a long, loud
> > honk blared as the big-rig rumbled past.
> >
> > Finally, a Mercedes pulled over. The shirtless driver wore sunglasses,
> > Daisy-Dukes and a baseball cap.
> >
> > "Gotta girlfriend," the driver asked.
> >
> > "Nope," Floyd replied.
> >
> > With pouncing eyes, the driver smiled, "Hop in."
> >
> > "Next time," Floyd said.
> >
> > After the driver remarked with a singsong tone, "Something's in the
> > closet," he sped away.
> >
> > Treaded miles.
> >
> > Like a thin strip of black tape placed across a large, sand-colored
> > horizio, (horizon) the 395 separated majestic mountains, lakes and rivers
> > into > > eastern and western views that were postcard perfect. Cactus and
> > Joshua trees stood like spectators at a rock concert, an October desert
> > wind hummed like a bass violin.
Barry, please help. Tape placed across a horizion?? IHere I use
horizion as a flat surface and not the definaiton I cut and pasted from
WP dictionary... all but the horizon: the line in the furthest distance
where the land and sea seems to meet the sky. SO should I use
flatlands or something, is the word horizion used as flat land or a
line in the distance or both?
>
> Now, wait a goddamned minute. Joshua trees and cactus? In Oregon? Now you've
> jumped to the other end of the 295 but you need to tell us.
LOL. I had not placed him correctly. He's still in Nevada. After he
falls asleep the road changes and winds into the forrest. He never
makes it to Oregan. He crosses the boarded in NEvada where the 395
goes into bear Valley. I'm not explaning here, I'm asking. I have a
hell of time with that google earth.
Yeah, but I'm keeping it. :-)
>
> >Drivers too paranoid to stop passed less frequently.
>
> Does this mean more non-paranoids were stopping or not?
Just trying to get anoter P word requirement outta the way:-) Actually
it should be:Drivers, perhaps too paranoid to stop, passed less
frequently.
>
> >He
> > began to worry until a battered 1970 white Chevy pick-up pulled over
> > and within unsettled sand and car exhaust; two taillights radiated
> > fiery red embers like deliverance of hope from a promise kept.
>
> JJ, read the above several times and think if it might be made more powerful
> if you moderated this urge to put on a poetic style.
You guys re right, it's gay. It's out. Besides, I'm not completly
confident that it's mine. And if you doubt... you know. I've done
comedy long enuff to know that if you're not sure, loose it.
Slid is sweet, love you.
> >
> > "Relax," Hank continued. "Werewolves don't have the pedigree
> > you see in the movies."
> >
> > Slyly, Floyd regarded the unlatched lock.
> >
> >
> > "Son.(,)" Hank cautioned, "You're not ready to hop out at this
> > velocity, at least not yet.
Barry, Hank is a big ole guy, I'm not gonna write it out, but he's one
of those guys that say "Son." before they continue to make theyir
point? And they say it with finality, "Son." Like with patience or
something, then they continue, you know? Anyway, just asking, is it
unheard of to writre : "Son." Hank cautioned,
Got it, thanks
Thanks for your time. Sorry if I'm needy. But I think this would do
good on Zoetroupe with the opening KIng quote and all. It would catch
alot of reads, I think. By the way should I use quotations with his
quote?
Thanks
> >
Jeff Jewett
and use irony by changing Floyd into a countrywester rap artist that
went by the name of
Prairie Dawg, wanted his mama to see him on TV , went on the Appollo
and got booed. A rap artist is really a writer so it shoudn't change
the plot any.
Thanks for the read.
Anopheles
The horizon is the interface betwen earth and sky. It is therefore easier
defined in a seascape or at sunset/rise. Or one could say, the land near the
horizon.
I have a problem with the simile of a tape as the road. That image is of one
viewed from space or at least elevated. In addition, you say it "separates
majestic mountains, lakes and rivers". This is ambiguous. It may separate
them from each other or physically divide individual things like rivers--
which is not what you mean. Consider rewording it so it becomes clearer what
you mean and perhaps
coming closer to the effect you want.
The image of the Joshua trees is a good one. I've been in the places where
they grow and they stand like scarecrows to the cacti and sage. Think of the
road as a ribbon or a river or some other strip like comparison that you
cane use to deepen the meaning. Perhaps drop words like "divide" and
"separate" and go for weaves, threads, as in "the road is a bitumen river,
flowing between desert and mountains, from a place where it burns the skin
to where it freezes it. ...."
>> Now, wait a goddamned minute. Joshua trees and cactus? In Oregon? Now
>> you've
>> jumped to the other end of the 295 but you need to tell us.
>
> LOL. I had not placed him correctly. He's still in Nevada. After he
> falls asleep the road changes and winds into the forrest. He never
> makes it to Oregan. He crosses the boarded in NEvada where the 395
> goes into bear Valley. I'm not explaning here, I'm asking. I have a
> hell of time with that google earth.
Why Google Earth? Just Google up a map. Try "map 395"
That's fine. It's good to have these little things to embarass us later. :-)
That's not the problem, JJ. It's one of punctuation. That period following
"Hank" should be a comma otherwise you have two incomplete sentences.
Yes.
> Thanks
Your welcome, JJ.
Anopheles
Jeff Jewett
Anopheles
"Jeff Jewett" wrote:
> Boy how I LOL!!!! Come on, man. What could embarrasse me????
The first novel/novella I wrote was written in the manner you are using in
some places in this work. I was so proud of it. It doesn't really exist
anymore because it has gone through so many rewrites. It took me a very long
time to learn some fundamental truths about writing. You might learn them
quicker, but probably you'll go through the same curve as I did.
One of those truths is that the writing should create imagery for the reader
without being intrusive. This is done by choosing the right words and using
only the minimum words to do so. This is not to say there is no place for
beautiful prose, but that is arguably the hardest writing to accomplish.
Before you can even attempt that type of writing, you should learn how to
write plainly yet powerfully so that a reader wants to go on and on reading.
When you do this and you learn the ways of a writer, then you will know of
the embarrassment I speak of if you look back to those early attempts at
impressing a reader.
Anopheles
Wind River
>
>>Floyd's eyes opened with an audible click as the full moon ducked
>>behind a bend and peeked back up.
>
>
> This moon was full of grog, right? How else to explain it "ducking". It's
> good that you're stretching your imagination with new ways of describing
> things,, but have them match the natural ability of the "thing". A moon can
> "slide" because when you travem it appears to do so, but "duck"?
I'm not fond of the audible click, but I like the ducking moon. I don't
know why. It just put an image in my mind of it disappearing quickly, I
guess. You can call me odd; most do. :)
Sue
Anopheles
Hi, Odd!
I'd rather a mooning duck. The problem I have with it is it's going the
wrong way. To duck To move (the head or body) quickly downwards or away or
to plunge suddenly. Now, can you imagine a scenario where that imagery is
likely? Perhaps in a highly mountainous place, but not where a highway
exists. It's good that he's stretching his imagination, but, if these images
are going to work, they need to have a core of truth to them.
He'll probably stick to the "duck" and that's fine. Most will accept it.
Anopheles
Wind River
I think he had entered the mountains by the time the moon ducked. At
least, that's how I pictured it.
Odd Duck
Jeff Jewett
Thanks for the read, SUe. It's time you put up.
Jeff Jewett
I like slid. And I have a lot of reading to catch up with Rule and you
and Alaric, so give me a minute.