Fisheyed Simmer

‘Much as I might I can’t throw it off’ said she the harridan she. Her rucksack cut into the poles of her shoulders, an apothecary’s tin of Rimes’ Curial tic-tucked into the lefthandside pouch. Her mamma warned her a gun such things, tolling her that throwoff’s were gad’s curse on nearpretty girls and nobodies. ‘…that’d be the way’ her mamma said sternly, her lip curling into the colt of hair mouth. ‘…no not near as fun E’ as a nearone or a fartherone’. That was the extent of her mamma’s quibbles, she had near nothing left to say, if nothing atoll. ‘…and should you have any idea of ever coming backhoe, you best scram it from your thoughts!’ Peabody cornbaskets weaved from woven calf, softer than lipids and agar. She ran so fast her hat blew off her head, a ribbon of locks flitting and jobbing every which every way. ‘I’ll see you in my dreams’ said the harridan running, ‘…I’ve got near nothing left to say…’. That night, deep in the back-quarter of the woods, the harridan pushed a tooth through a split in lip, thinking as she did, ‘…mamma’s quibbles are the anchor that moors me to Job, Killingbock said one thing or the other, silly fisheyed simmer’. Her mamma left a light on on the near portside, just in case her da tour came rune looking for a squarequarter.