Jack wore a neck brace; Jill had an arm cast. He had let them use the well as a favor. Now they were suing him. Nice.
A thief, madam? No, you misinterpret. I am an artist. Here are your purse, your keys. The look on your face, my lady, is my masterpiece.
“Tim?” She blindly reaches through the shadows. “Is that you?” A slow wet shuffle and, “Brains…” it replies. That’d be a no, then.
I sent my report to the lab and sank some bubbly, dreaming of my PhD. Everyone knows gerbils can’t type — but now we have hard evidence.
Her fists twisted in impotent rage, teeth clenched in suppressed fury. A seething bitterness welled up within her. “I SAID VANILLA, DADDY!!”
I’m a cryptographer, and he’s a chicken farmer. On Saturday mornings, we unscramble eggs.