Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Argot

The mice fought in the ceiling, squealing in rage. Sure it's not rats? he said. She plodded through her novel. Rats would sound like cats. Cats like elephants. The rain in its waves seemed white and holy.

1 comment:

Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglips said...

This one is perfect. Maybe there is room for a wry, rye-soaked website or literally journal: Novels to Plod Through.