Wildean Fragments 1, 2


Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?

"Yes, sir," he said, and closed the door with a slight bang. Odd, thought Howard as he lit a new and slightly bedraggled cigarette: Temple's out of sorts. What's got up his jumper today? Arnold raced for the door and--


The Turlock continued to stalk unevenly towards the bleeding Arnold, who let out a muffled shriek of dismay. It shook its shaggy head and large drops of pus and vinegar sported out in rays, tainting a circle of land around it. This assault was going well, it mused as it loomed closer to the boy, but where was the thrill of violent mauling that had so soothed his nerves of old? Ah, the ennui was returning, the Turlock sighed to himself as it troubledly raked its jagged and musty claws in random patterns through Arnold's mangled flesh and organs. Perhaps a vacation . . .? Arnold raced for the door and --


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