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Hypocrites readers

Guided by Baudelaire, and 2666 after the Chilean Roberto Bolaño of Great Trails backlanders Guimaraes Rosa, the work of Catalan Pere Gimferrer, the Mexican José Emilio Pacheco, the Peruvian Manuel Scorza , the Mexican Elena Garro, the poet Gonzalo Márquez Christ (born in Colombia, that country besieged by war), we present one of the most important writers of Latin America: the Uruguayan Cristina Peri Rossi. Welcome to the amazement!

Contemporary Classics ask for help from readers to find books that have been unjustly neglected by the academy, as did a lengthy article about Latin American literature and do not want to contribute to the exclusion of official criticism.

Our company has a rule: We are tired of historical novels as determined by the publishing industry, also the post-modern detective story. We need works that help in the understanding of human beings. Novels that may be relevant.

counting on you, hypocritical reader to find them. Greetings from Lima the Horrible.

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A great author: Cristina Peri Rossi Cristina Peri Rossi

Montevideo (Uruguay), November 12, 1941. Lived in Spain since 1972. After studying music and biology and graduated in Comparative Literature. She is the author of: Living (1963), abandoned Museums (1968), The book of my cousins \u200b\u200b (1969), Evidence panics (1970), Dinosaur afternoon (1976), The rebellion of children (1980), The museum failed efforts (1983), The Ship of Fools (1984), forbidden passion A (1986), The last night of Dostoevsky ( 1992) and intimate Disaster (1997). Of his work in the genre of poetry stand out: Evohé (1971), description of a shipwreck (1974), Diaspora (1976), Europe after the rain (1987), Eros Again (1994), and that night (1996).

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: Prologue to Tales Gathered

(This Uruguayan author published the prologue to his collection of stories waiting for the reader as we are passionate about great literature)

The word 'story' comes from the Latin number, which means telling. Counting is one of the oldest skills of the left cerebral hemisphere, the language. We think that men and women who were told from the use of articulate speech, told the passing of the buffalo through the passes, told the sequence of seasons throughout the day to night, the exploits of heroes, history of the tribe and family, told the past and the future, what plants could be eaten and which were poisonous, told his travels and loves, dreams and fears. Everything can be counted, and the great master Chekhov, one of the narrators more subtle and intelligent literature, said he could write a different story every day on any object. Another great writer, Clarice Lispector, the woman who definitely modernized Brazilian literature with his fine insight (some of whose books I have translated into Castilian), wrote a story about a subtle and analytical egg.

Everything can be counted, if we find the way to go. And from very early human beings, unlike animals, we learned to count. Hence the phrase "Live to Tell", with its variation, used by Gabriel García Márquez in his memoirs, Living to Tell.

Like all girls of the world before television and the Internet (which, in its way, also narrates), loved the stories, I identified with some characters, especially with animals suffered, cried and learned to live listening and reading stories. There is no innocence in the children's stories. They are so cruel, so terrible as those who write for adults: there is envy, loneliness, pain, desires, hopes, though, unlike life, always end well, because they defeat the evil.

We can say that at first, if there ever was a beginning, it was the story. All religions, all worldviews begin with a mythical story based tradition, the past, strains, gender relations and culture.
I was a precocious writer. I, who dreamed of a total writer in all genres, began publishing a book of stories, Living, in 1963, published by Alpha, of Montevideo. (On my hometown wrote one of the dearest to me tales: "The city of Lucifer", included in this volume. I hope I have caught some of its features singular: the lengthy time, the melancholy and the fact that a city of migrants who arrived some time in Europe, fleeing war and misery, dragging an incurable nostalgia, which led to the melancholy poetry of Latin America and to tango lyrics written by poets who loved the suburbs.)

Still today I think this is a mysterious fruit of doom, how a girl of less than twenty years, rebel transgressive, and poor romantic age he published as a book of short stories early in the largest publisher of Montevideo, Alfa, founded and led by an exiled Valencian anarchist, Benito Milla. It was the best editorial of the country for their literary quality and the elegance of its printing. I was sure of my vocation as a writer, but as Jo, the heroine of Little Women, Louisa May Alcott, I was shocked when Benito Milla gave me edit my first book. Years later, when he was a writer widely read and highly rewarded, she said, in an interview that he had observed me, evening after evening, eyeing the table balances of his bookshop, where I bought some of the most beloved books, published by Plaza and Janes in those beautiful hardcover editions and illustrated with watercolor jacket: Nena dear, William Saroyan, or Jacob's room, of Virginia Woolf.

My daily visit to your local bookstore had caught his attention, and being a melancholy man of few words (drew the sadness of exile, which would then be repeated, when he fled Uruguayan dictatorship), approached me and asked me what I studied. I told him Comparative Literature. Then I asked if I wrote. I said yes. And he offered to read the unpublished stories that I kept in a folder, typed on a Remington that was my most loyal friend and also accompanied me during exile. A year later he published my first book of stories, Living in the collection's flagship editorial: Carabela.

Then, in Uruguay, a country of lovers of literature, not many readers willing to read the stories, poems or novels of national writers.

We had received an education and a culture completely French style, and the only books I read were those of European or American writers. At the end of the day, three of the great French poets: Lautréamont, Jules Supervielle Laforgue and Jules, were born in Montevideo. Felisberto Hernandez, one of the best storytellers of literature in Castilian, malvivía playing piano in local cinemas and had no more than ten readers, but yes, absolutely convinced of his talent. He financed the publication of his books, but sometimes the money did not come to the front, hence this little gem called Book-top. Juan Carlos Onetti had a bit more luck, but because he had gone to Buenos Aires, the great publishing center that replaced Castilian Spain under Franco.

Publication My first book of stories, Living, was a joy that I could not share with anyone. No longer lived with my family, who, on the other hand, felt that publishing a book, rather than marry and have children confirmed that I was a very rare kind of mutant unclassifiable, and the few friends or friends who had ( all great readers) unanimously despised national literature, to write well, had been born in Europe (prejudice that shares until today Harold Bloom). I do not know any writer, nor had much interest: the writers, I only care about the work. I began to feel guilty for having published a book, she felt have done something wrong irreparable, and masturbating in public or make a streep tease in Independence Square.
However, the fact of having published a book at age twenty complicated it a little life to the whole world: my teachers, who despised the national literature, to my colleagues who considered it risky and premature, and my family did not know how to assume that I was indeed a writer. Then, working in a high school where my book was completely ignored, an attitude he shared the literary criticism of local newspapers, with a valuable exception: Mario Benedetti, that gave him a very complimentary page in a newspaper of wide circulation.
few years later, I went to the highest literary award of stories that were in Montevideo, the publisher of the Ark, who headed the unforgettable critic Ángel Rama. The awards, in the country where I was born, were quite clean. The juror was proud not to reward a friend or renounce a part of the court if he knew he had made any. The proof is that I, a newcomer to the literary world, descended from a family of immigrants and a radical political position (starting the transcendental seventies), won the prize in my book The museum abandoned. The following year, won the prize for novel of the great library of March with the novel The Book of my cousins.
I continued writing stories all my life. He published eight volumes, of which I am very satisfied, most of these stories are included in this book, along with some unpublished.

is a genre I love, as a reader and writer, who always return and I will be faithful for all my life. I like the grammar of the story its structure, its brevity (he also wrote some long stories) and the fact that you have to do without the accessory, as insignificant. Most of the time my characters, like those of Kafka, not named, because it would be a bit unnecessary data: the story has an economy as implacable as poetry.

The story is the genre that has evolved in the twentieth century, thanks to the authors of the two most important literature of this century: the American and Hispanic. Has had an extraordinary rise and high readership in South American countries, where the novel is a less, compared to the narrative and poetry, exactly the opposite in Spain, where still a nineteenth-century vision, it is considered that the story is a novel kind of shorthand. The great writers in the twentieth century Castilian were excellent storytellers: Julio Cortazar, Jorge Luis Borges, Juan Rulfo, Juan Carlos Arreola, Augusto Monterroso, Juan Carlos Onetti, Gabriel García Márquez and Mario Vargas Llosa.

Besides these authors, there are many writers of original tales, full of wit, especially in the short story formula. And a Mexican magazine, the story, paradigmatic that for more than twenty years he published the stories of writers around the world, in addition to readers' spontaneous collaborations.

It counts for something. The good storyteller (and is widely known my condition talkative, often, stories that I told in a meeting and I have not written back to me, as stories of others) applies, without knowing it, the board of Edgar A. Poe, the great innovator of the genre: the unity of purpose and strict economy must have a good story. Like poetry, the story does not support modern digressions, is a clockwork mechanism which every word is essential. Can not fail or overrun.

often occurs to me that I convert my dreams into stories. Experiences is one of the most complex and difficult literature, but also the most rewarding. It is a form of exorcism: the nightmare is a series of symbols and a moral, it is disclosed. And German Romantic writers had discovered that dreams are a kind of writing, the writing of the unconscious.

This book is a story, 'Tsunami', which arose from a recurring nightmare, a few days before the terrible tsunami that destroyed entire cities. I stopped dreaming about him, causing test script exorcism.

Sometimes a story haunts me, but do not try to write until I can not think the first sentence. I know the anxiety of the blank page, which many writers talk. When I sit down to write, I know the first sentence, and if you do not know, I dedicate it to something else. Because the first sentence of a story is crucial: if you manage to seduce the reader, if he can catch it, install it, outright, in time and space of fiction (albeit a timeless time and an unnamed space) continue reading. Otherwise, stop reading.

effect for that unit spoken of Edgar A. Poe, as important as the first sentence is the last. Sometimes, this is a final blow, a masterful KO. But in other cases, it is the emotion you want to cause an ambiguous ending, open, full of uncertainty.

Lumen The publisher has given me the opportunity, I appreciate very much, to publish most of my stories, from different books, most spent a long time. He added others, unpublished. From 1963 to 2007, when publishing this volume, after many years, and yet, I have written stories retain their power, sometimes its alienation, irony, humor, poetry and psychological observation. My only regret is not being able to write: I know that I enjoyed doing it and, sometimes, I have also suffered. How I would like to make the reader enjoy and suffer.

Jorge Luis Borges said that every encounter is a casual appointment. The stories I find them by chance, apparently, living, watching, dreaming, listening, pero, como Borges, creo que al escribirlos, cumplo con una cita previa. Como él, pienso que están escritos en alguna parte y que mi tarea es descifrarlos, quitarles el polvo y la paja, para que su moralidad aparezca como en una parábola. Siempre se escribe para algo. Una de las frases más hermosas y terribles de Jesús, en los Evangelios, dice: «Hablo para que los que quieran entender, entiendan». La suscribo. Escribo para que los que quieran entender, entiendan.

Los relatos son una especie sofisticada de parábolas, en el sentido pedagógico y moral del término, aunque la forma haya evolucionado muchísimo. And they are parables for human beings, unlike animals (for whom I have great respect and affection) learn through stories. The enjoyment of children and girls when they hear a story (are concentrated, attentive, his eyes bright) and its reluctance to accept any changes show that for them, as for any reader a story is an experience of knowledge, contains a kind of truth, but truth, in literature, is relative and paradoxical. A story is a fiction that hides a truth sometimes hard to take.

The history of mankind and personal ethics have been formed through great stories of the Iliad to Bible, of the Koran to Gilgamesh.

First you feel, then you know. This is the principle on which I write the stories, so that, as in a hall of mirrors, the reader will enjoy, suffer, smile or laugh, learn to recognize or understand what is different.

A story is a small incision in time to carry forward in a sense, an idea, a dream. Waiver of the accessory and as a scalpel, sinks into the depths of emotion or feeling.
My only regret is not being able to write, because I have written.
But I'm sure he will continue writing stories because I love life, and stories, life vibrates.

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Gonzalo Márquez Christ: Book of Lightning

Born in Bogotá, Colombia, in 1963. has published two editions of the poems Revelation rose (Quimera del Oro, 1988 - Single Sheets, 1990), the novel Puppet Ritual (Colcultura Scholarship winner in 1990: Modern Times Publishers, 1992); The Tempestario and other stories (Common Presence Publishers, 1998); released The word (first edition collection of spells, 2001, second edition, 2005), anthologies Anticipations (CreateSpace, California, 2011), The legacy of fire (Hunting Books, Ibague, 2010), Liberation origin (Universidad Nacional de Colombia, 2003) and Dark Birth (First Mention National Competition José Manuel Arango, Suite spells, Bogotá, 2005, second edition 2006). In 1989 he co-founded the cultural magazine Common Presence (Grant Colcultura recognized for best cultural magazine in the country, 1992), which is its director. In his book Great interviews Common Presence obtained Bicentennial Literature Prize (Ministry of Culture, Colombia, 2010).

is the creator and coordinator of the library The international literature Conjurados currently distributed in Ecuador, Peru, Venezuela, Puerto Rico and Colombia. He is the founder of the virtual newspaper Con-fable. Several of his poems and stories have been translated into English, French, Arabic, Italian, Portuguese, and Braille. He received the International Essay Prize Maurice Blanchot 2007 with his work " Question of Origin."

His work has been discussed by leading poets and thinkers of our time as EM Cioran, Roberto Juarroz, Antonio Gamoneda, José Ángel Valente, Fernand Verhese, António Rosa Ramos, Alfredo Silva Estrada, Bernard Noël, Claude Fell, Roger Munier, Olga Orozco, Eugenio Montejo, Martha Canfield, Claude Michel Cluny, Franco Volpi, Padron Jorge Rodriguez, Marco Antonio Campos ...

This author has been nominated for Federico García Lorca, 2009 and 2010. Currently preparing a book of interviews to major contemporary artists.

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Puppet Ritual Gonzalo Márquez Christ


An exemplary novel

This renowned poet from Colombia presented a strange and wonderful novel. The following words appeared on the cover of the book: "Adventure essentialist poetic exploration, structural legerdemain, intensity thoughtful proposal to update the original sense of tragedy ... It is revelation of a deep research on love, written in two narrative levels (mythical and experiential) that end up replacing it. The confluence of genres: Test-story-poetry-theater in a long breath that transgresses into action, philosophically projected image to form radiating in the Ritualization the moment, at this time in those who have not witnessed the return of the man. " Ritual puppet unique Baroque style of content, not form. Vivid and powerful writing.

is important to start reading!

(Photo: Man Ray)

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Comments

By EM Cioran

"His novel Puppet Ritual is a contest between philosophy and image that hopefully leads to tragedy. " (Paris, France, September 26, 1992).

The word's origin
By Robert Juarroz

Puppet Ritual may be defined as adventure back to the first floor. (Buenos Aires, Argentina, October 15, 1992)

greet Puppet Ritual
By Olga Orozco

Puppet Ritual is a book full of findings from multiple design refinements and a very special, very personal in its structure. Its complexity, its density, its definitions and statements are disturbing, there is a single sentence level, a normal bridge, a direct account of the currents can escape found multiple and uniquely woven ... I appreciate the inexhaustible richness of each page and the excellence of its writing. (Buenos Aires, Argentina, March 10, 1993).

The word on the trapeze
By José Ángel Valente

From fine poems Revelation of the rose, Marquez Christ has come a ruthless poetic traffic now leads us to experience deep and sparkling of his novel-if I can call it puppet- Ritual. In this strange book, full of thoughts and images, write me prevails a keen interest. (Almeria, Spain November 17, 1992)

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Puppet Ritual Gonzalo Márquez Christ: Chapter 1

DAWN
First convergence path

A seed of death engenders your visions ... Pilgrim permanence refrain my shadow. Fear-graft in the blood-tree begins its celebration of sleepwalkers and is time to move moons misleading.

-Am door beginning and end. I have a face to the visible, one for the invisible ...

say to surprise me. Do not fear the shame suicide without a body ... Looking for a guide to retrace the path of the night: a reader of the fire, the woman who takes advantage of the setting sun, a continued development ... Then I hid in the eyelids if I notice that the word fire risk.

"Life will come: I was taken by the light.

The rapture is day in a realm of lost ... The first beam is frozen in the closest mirror and start working from the abyss.

Now comes the scream inside. Prolong the origin of meanders down where the red spider known breast end. Believe in the adventure of language and sickle founder of laughter. Trying to tame the unexpected, to arrange the puzzle, and I focus on the noon of your eyes waiting for the sign of the cruel gifts. Today I drive the carousel of silences: the zooming power of rejection. This fear disturbs: originality ... and may exist in the flutter of my mouth the answer is water bird, because something lurks in the lake and watch impassively the night will soon my drill.

double fatal myth is explained with lovers, they sinister or invent tactics exploit a window of rain, the circles of divine laughter, the ceremony of thirst that feeds the illusion.

"It recognizes that all perfection is impossible without death: yet I own nothing. And you can not access. The gods are destroyed by laughter but you cause the crying demon. The fall constellations ...

affirm newborn prior to the past. Flee memory: Domain scream, and my oblivion is released. When buying a drink invisible the instant name-drop where I go the time- although the tongue swinging mark our time.

Do not confuse the signal austere chose: my mistake was to open the dikes of the language, go beyond the monosyllable. And know the struggle with uncertainty, the mission of starting words like scabs. Founded many masks our fear-great nude-but I am helpless behind them is skin twitches. In the center of the labyrinth awaits the perpetrator shouting that nobody listens to your breathing ally ... Where reborn sacred?

feel the call of the water, my adventure is in your stillness. Let's bustling streets, returning. The snake Asphalt vibrating beneath our feet. I'm close to me in the land of oblivion I esteem, I've discovered. You are a tunnel leading to the end in which I am waiting for me. You've set out to do the rite of Seed, a ceaseless sunrise: the time it finally lands on his back.

The radiance plays with my eyes. Accept the tragedy to arouse the dawn of the faces ... Here where the ghosts are real just not looking for general themes or siege, there is hope in the mystery. Your heart bury my images. From the outset we outlined the perspective chosen for the other person draw the face I'll meet you, you'll hear me: the silhouette of the approaches past torment retiñendo traits. Each candle-eyed and complacency prison, trying to display to the final viewer-the mirror.

"It's not enough to oblivion. I grew used to fear, not to die, "a fragile and new births ... I'm away, but no matter, the existence is fraught with excessive distress by changing sky. You say

improvising indifference, tilt and am away, inside me, anchored in coastal intimate. And hope the bye with no recurrence, the dissolution of the knot of feelings and images. I want to escape. Seeking the light prison invented fears, the river gag reflexes.

"I just wanted to be the favorite jester-death mother, who knows the place of the night. The point where the past meets the future: the moment, and look at me, dying ...

You protect yourself, you unfold. Understand both commonplace and avoiding not to love. Beginnings are fighting ambiguities and statements, scratches and rejections: the costumes of dawn. Of memories and desires, and negative omissions explicit. A masked in the language world, the precepts and the clouds immobile trench for translators of silence.

-Women not loud enough to be so sad, is still looking for shelter in pain? When I saw you I said I violated their appearance, it is essential that I do not know ... although in this century someone still seeking to rebuild beauty. Injuries

my vanity. The east remains in me. It imposes a high-sided trade, our time is not a change of values \u200b\u200bbut of fear. Broken doors feel the blood, the silent lightning, fear, happy ... Because life lives in the habit broken. And while my hair steals intermittent wind I hear your, your greed, I know all the names from oblivion.

-that salvation is not as long a time indecipherable, is my cry. At times God has been expelled Adam from Paradise to the rite is the only opposite of death.

say falling in my eyes. Tracing the trail of the heartbeat, the steps of the unspeakable. We must create an injunction that allows a high scandal, remember that it is ghost who is suffering the rebellion of his shadow and protect the endangered: the blind border, signs of the wreckage, the stripping of the name, renouncing that prepares wisdom ...

From the beginning there are acts that are allocated for ever, my body will hand in a train window, I am exercising the heading. The undulating. The flowing. The water in my face is thirsty of who collects countless gestures and my statue sculpted from their blood.

Avanzo. Looking at the asphalt road of the city in ruins. Appear again the frantic streets, now all the watches are developed. One night I taught my heart to beat, now the world takes me away, take us away the banks, and if necessary to sacrifice this for past ...

I go to bed in time. How many times again before you find missing? How many memories will be grain and murder of my shadow?

Gonzalo Márquez Christ

© Copyright

Tingling In Your Nose

Pacheco : essential voice

Mexico City (1939). One of the most prestigious writers in Mexico. Poet, novelist, translator and cultural journalist. He has received the following awards: National Poetry Prize, National Prize of Literary Journalism Award, Xavier Villaurrutia, Magda Donato Award, Award José Asunción Silva (1996), Octavio Paz Prize (2003 ) and Ibero-American Poetry Prize Pablo Neruda (2004).

Among his works stand out: elements night (1963), fire Rest (1966), not ask me how time flies (1969), 'll go and you'll never ( 1973), Islands in the Stream (1976), since (1980), work at sea (1983).

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3 stories José Emilio Pacheco


No

the valley happens in a supernatural phenomenon. A farmer goes out of his hut to witness the miracle. Few minutes with the dialogue that made the miracle. When you return, your wife asks: - Who was that? - The farmer took a seat at the table and says, "Nobody. It was God.

Mutations

The city center is a statue that changes shape. In the evening representing Diana, during the day takes the figure of Apollo. If you saw the attributes of Mars announced the war, "so clear and obvious symbolism. Nobody dares to contemplate more than one second, because if she sees the image of Thanatos know that a few hours find the muerte.Quizá the statue exists only in the imagination of those who believe her. But there are countless pictures of their mutations. At other times there were even those who dared to touch it and, before dying, bequeathed us their testimony. Either way, the statue plural haunts the inhabitants of the city. The king wanted to demolish. The Nursing Council vetoed the order and that according to legend, when the statue is destroyed it will end the world.

horror tale

violated the crypt at midnight. He found his own body in the coffin.

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2

SERENADE

We were going to live life together.
We were going to die any death together.
Bye.

I do not know if you know what to say goodbye. Goodbye
means no longer look ever

live among other people laugh at other things,
die of other penalties. Goodbye
is separated, do you understand?, Separated, forgetting
as useless costume, youth.

We were going to do many things together!
Now we have other appointments.
different stars on different nights give us light.
wet rain you left me dry to me. Okay
: goodbye. Against the wind
the poet nothing can.

When they leave the goodbyes,
the poet can only ask
swallows flying endlessly about your dream.

THE EXILE

As kids,
and parents
us dime refused glare,
to nosotros
nos gustaba desterrarnos a los parques,
para que viéramos que hacíamos falta,
y caminaran tras su corazón
hasta volverse mas humildes y pequeños que nosotros.

Entonces era hermoso regresar!

Pero un día
parten de verdad los barcos de juguete,
cruzamos corredores, verguenzas, años;
y son las tres de la tarde
y el sol no calienta la miseria.
Un impresor misterioso
put the word sad
on the front page of every newspaper.

Oh, one day walking
understand that we are in a prison of walls away ...

It is impossible to return.

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The great Manuel Scorza Scorza

(Lima 1928 - Madrid 1983)

poet and highly respected Peruvian writer with books translated into over thirty languages. obtained the National Prize for Poetry 1956. Author of the following works: Canto a Bolivia miners (Mexico, 1953), The imprecations (1955), The farewells (1959, 1960), Deceptions Wizard (1961), Requiem for a gentleman (1962), loving Poetry (Anthology) (1963), The waltz of the reptiles (1970), incomplete Poetry (1970), Strengthen by Rancas (1970), Garambombo the Invisible (1972), insomniac Rider (1976), Cantar de Agapito Robles .

Contemporary Classics tries to bring the reader to one of the best American novelists and poets of all time.

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Gimferrer Poems: Spanish Renewal

Poet, essayist and translator, Catalan, born in Barcelona in 1945. He studied philosophy and literature. author's message tetrarch, Arde sea Marea solar, tidal and lunar The diamond water.

In 1985 he was the vacancy left by Aleixandre in English Royal Academy.
has won the following awards: National Book in 1989, the Literature Prize Catalana, Barcelona City , Verb Cavall of Critics Association and English Magazine award Serra d'Or. In 1997 he received the National Prize for Literature of Generalitat de Catalunya, in 1998 the National English Literature and in 2000 the Reina Sofía Latin American Poetry.

What Does Thickening Bowel Mean

Pere Gimferrer: "In the Kitchen"

This morning in the kitchen was a beast: an anteater, it would seem. At first I thought I was dreaming.

(I had fallen heavily asleep reading Kafka, and Austro-Hungarian troubled dream dragons)

But they were very real to me shaking hands and fatigue of the aisle perpendicular .

The beast lurked in the background, near the sink. I wondered if it would be amphibious. It did not seem dangerous. In any case, nothing was done to Mary when, minutes before, found when washing dishes. The window was closed. Obviously he could only enter through the fan opening. I came to open the window. But I knew that I could leave. Icily remained motionless, stirred only by your breathing. Maybe he was hurt, asleep, or ill. On the other hand, it was also attacked me suddenly. Reclining on itself as it was, I could not see the bottom of your head. Its shape suggested a resonant language, perhaps fangs stabbed. Eyes I was denied under a dark coat and ruffled.

Maybe the beast was slaughtered. The gun was imposed as the only viable instrument; shuddered to imagine the heartbreak of this mass under the incision of the rough metal. But a failure could excite and, moreover, there was one gun at home. Lock her in the kitchen disrupt our domestic regime, not to mention that the continued detention of all unpredictable effects in some species. Which was not caused major disruptions, so I decided to leave.

When I

at noon for my usual walk, he was gone.

Tonight I heard the gasp under my bed. Other times I had called attention to this rumor, but now I find it easy to identify. Certainly has something to say ... and better opportunity awaits.