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Flippy and Flaky Story pg-6
Once Flaky ran back upstairs Flippy just stayed still in the chair he was sitting in for a while. When he finally got up he decided to take a shower right after Flaky got out. Even though he didn't have a change of clothes he at least wanted to be clean. Once Flaky got out of the medium long shower she was taking, Flippy went upstairs and asked her how to use it. She gave him a weird look, and he gave her one back.
Flippy: What's wrong?
Flaky: Huh? oh, nothing!
Why was she acting like that? Was it something he said? All he asked was how to use her shower. What was so odd about his question?
Flaky: Flippy, umm...
She stopped in mid-sentence. Okay, now he REALLY wanted to know what was wrong with her, she was acting strange.
Flippy: Flaky, are you sure your okay?
Flaky: Yes, I just...Well, I wanted to know if...if you've ever used a shower before
That was a very strange thing to say. Of course he's used a shower before, its just that he's been in the woods for so long that he had to bath
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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