Moonette heard the door to her beach house creak open and then click closed. Was it six o’clock already? She glanced at the clock, then quickly took her arm and swept the several miniature silver credit cards off of her desk top and into the top drawer before....
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Faulkner, Hemingway, the list *is* long of writers who could write whilst drinking alcohol. I'm sorry, but we can't add your name to the list.
A trail of fire gradually blazed from the poor blinded, sneezing dragon, along the spilt cognac until it reached the cognac-saturated silks. The slow motion stopped suddenly as a whole shelf exploded.
Yes, nothing says "birthday fic" like this passage.
*rolls eyes*
Wait a minute - Hemingway like violent, blood-soaked bull fights. Faulkner wrote about disfunctional families and madness. Hmmm. You could be the next Great Thing . . .
Thank goodness Ros was here to sort you out.
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No alcohol was consumed in the writing or this, as it was done first thing in the morning before breakfast! Please remember, I don't write and hopefully this explains why!
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*snort* For someone who "doesn't write" you certainly created quite a scene.
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TDU is the most prolific 'non-writer' I know.
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'Albus!' called TDU. 'Over here!' She pointed to a handy fire hydrant. 'Can you conjure a pipe or something?'
By this stage, Charlie had cornered one of the Fireballs in the backroom and was turning his attention to the other. Girlyswot hoped that some of the dragon handlers from the circus were on their way. And that there'd be some fabric left for Berte. Oh no! The shop assistant. She had to tell Charlie ( ... )
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And now I'm needed downstairs again - more asap.
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