Sometimes I tried to write, and everytime I did, I locked up. Up and down his ass goes, tick-tock, just like a cat'stail. Oh, ayuh? You wouldn't think three little syllables could have so muchrelief in them. I could see the stubbysmoking weapon in his hands.
Idropped to one knee and snatched up the little stuffed dog. Lightning zigged across the sky, there was the crack of anotherbreaking branch, and then something was falling toward me. We taught her she wasn'tnothing but a nigger. He went on writing poetry for another twentyyears, and when someone asked him why he'd quit fiction he said hecouldn't understand why he had trucked with it so long in the firstplace.
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