Escape from Elba
Exiles of the New York Times
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Author Topic: Creative Writing  (Read 27152 times)
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chauncey.g
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« Reply #1035 on: June 14, 2007, 12:11:07 PM »

name but shortened it to Fusby to cover up his ethnic background...
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kitinkaboodle
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« Reply #1036 on: June 14, 2007, 12:15:51 PM »

Yes, Fadge fah-dah-jay and his constant habit of forgetting to unwrap his towelled head after showering with
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« Reply #1037 on: June 14, 2007, 12:18:39 PM »

a Basenji
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"History doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes."
kitinkaboodle
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« Reply #1038 on: June 14, 2007, 12:19:32 PM »

who also towel wrapped
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chauncey.g
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« Reply #1039 on: June 14, 2007, 12:23:32 PM »

and habitually twirled the towel and snapped Fusby on the buttocks while yodeling "I'm looking over a four leaf clover..." in Bantu.
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desdemona222b
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« Reply #1040 on: June 14, 2007, 07:41:22 PM »

Meanwhile, back at Sing-Sing, Puglover finally had to ...well...get off the pot.  He was so sure he could have solved the mystery of the old man and tortoise-logo ceiling tile, but his efforts were stymied.  "Damn!" he swore, punching his right palm as hard as he could.  "If only I could get my hands on a ...
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« Reply #1041 on: June 14, 2007, 08:20:16 PM »

...fawn-colored pug with a pedigree a mile long!

"I see you're left-handed."  An unfamiliar, wraspy voice croaked from a shadowy corner...
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desdemona222b
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« Reply #1042 on: June 14, 2007, 08:21:24 PM »

raspy?
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desdemona222b
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« Reply #1043 on: June 14, 2007, 08:33:31 PM »

"Oh my heavens to BETSY!  How in the hell did YOU get in here?" a shocked Puglover gasped.

A lumpen figure emerged from the shadow, cackling. 

"Sur-PRY-ize!"  It was Pug's old enemy and former dogcatcher of Terrebonne Parish, Jimmy "Prevert" Prejean.
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« Reply #1044 on: June 14, 2007, 08:36:41 PM »

Prevert emitted a low, throaty chortle.  It made Puglover's hair stand on end.

"Wail, dat's a long damn story, old chum.  It all started after Chlotilde closed her little bar and nutria grill and an unsavory character by the name of Bayou Dan converted the place to strip joint for the handicapped.  He thought it was a novel idea.  I thought the pole dancer with one leg shorter than the other was the love of my life.  Only problem was...
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« Reply #1045 on: June 14, 2007, 09:05:15 PM »

"Ah suddenly loss mah accent, mid-sentence," thought Prevert.

"Onliest problem was her city-slicker boyfriend, Junior Boudreaux.  See, Junior was from Lafayette, so he TAUGHT he was all dat, but..."
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« Reply #1046 on: June 14, 2007, 09:07:13 PM »

"Just stop right NOW!!" screamed Puglover.  "Junior is my first cousin!"
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« Reply #1047 on: June 14, 2007, 09:11:41 PM »

"He's also very dead, cher ami."
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« Reply #1048 on: June 14, 2007, 09:36:50 PM »

"Now wait a minute," said Puglover.  "Are you talking about the Junior Boudreaux from Lafayette with the wen on his forehead, or do you mean the Junior Boudreaux from Lafayette with the...
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« Reply #1049 on: June 15, 2007, 12:47:21 AM »


Seeing a park bench had just opened up, Harold and his many visions walked over the dead man and took a seat.  "Hmm" He thought "Still warm". Now where were we dear?

(“The secret charm of old restaurants is precisely this sense of continuity: you sit down where someone sat one hundred years before you. They sat down, told a story, and died. Life goes on. Old cities soothe and ease the pain of living because wherever you are someone else was there before, had troubles worse than yours, and passed on. I don’t see how people can inhabit spanning new suburbs without succumbing to terminal anxiety. We need the dead to make us feel alive. In New Orleans they’re at it full time.”—Andrei Codrescu, The Muse Is Always Half-Dressed in New Orleans)

« Last Edit: June 15, 2007, 12:49:51 AM by pugetopolis » Logged

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—Vincent Canby, The New York Times
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