It's a disgusting thing but Paddy Gilhooley, who knew better as a child, had begun farting in church very early in life. He started in grammar school, many decades ago, long before the nuns selected him in fourth grade to be an altar boy to serve Mass.
It was over, finally it was over. The witch that had terrorized my family and I was finally dead. I should be happy, ecstatic even, but I’m not. All I ever wanted was a normal life, I never even for a moment considered that my life would end up like this.
We’re doing fine. I’m sitting in a bar in Zaragoza, watching an old man waiting, a glass of brandy in front of him. He looks at his watch. The Chinese children on the bar are yelling, and the television plays football. It is eight and I am here to write. Words are increasing their subjective value by not coming easily. I suffer pleasantly from the silence in my head.
Mr. Miller was alone on the floor. Nearly all of his strengths – his sense of smell and his hearing especially – were being recruited into a general effort to HOLD ON until his masters returned from their long day trip. They had taken off in their car for a Christmas Eve dinner and had been gone since morning, and now the day had turned into night without them.