I read a fable the other day, and I'm afraid to report that it was absolutely horrid. Badly in need of repair. Worth no more than a harlequin. Worth no more than a third of a harlequin, even.
Quite awful, in summary.
So I've rewritten it. Mind, it's no literary masterpiece, but it's an age away from the dregs I drug it out of.
Ahem.
Once
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[He fidgets a little bit with the front of his jumper.]
Do... do you happen to know any Poohs?
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Then holds up a broken watch.]
My clock is slow!
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Get a new one or find an editor. Quick.
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[tosses the watch- screw that watch.]
Might you point an old man towards an editor, then, my spry young gent?
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