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small escape  

One day the talking book went, ’Oh!’ the sound of deflation, all elation gone because the characters had all gone for a runner.

This upset the Mummy. ‘Sally reach out quick with the people gone there is no telling the ending of this rhyming. If we don’t catch them fast they’ll jump into other books and mess up all the plots if they get the urge to be combining.’

Sally was stretching but to no avail. ‘Yes and no, come and go, these actors have stopped their loving and now are leaving. Learn and look where’s my book its running out the door; is that the way the cat went? Oh come back please, oh please, you’re too slippery your coats are made of mischief, catter catch, ratter rat. See them leaving Mummy is it my fault should I have treated them much nicer, given them their due for all such things as heaven does allow here, be robbed and cry, I wonder why, its a mystery and they have taken all the answers.’

~Is it for what, what is it worth then, poor little buggers stuck in a storm its not their fault its just a shaming of the writing they can't believe in. Run away for sake of their integrity. What’s worth worse a shitty book without a people, or the danger of a stranger come to call for your marriage vows then haul you to a sinning place and tie you in a knot to a plot that’s vacuous and a writer who’s forgot that money’s only right if the writings write and doesn’t stink of old succumbing. Let alone the child who should be knowing better. The Mum I can explain but the kid should have a feeling for the fleeing freedom felons, pursued and made to wear the same old words and chains its disgusting. I say let the buggers go its not as though they’re gonna live is it? Broken-hearted buggers begging for a letter to get them through the night, desirous of a speech they can make a history with. Pawns in peddles of deceit let them like a little, the first rain flood will wash the colours from ’em, scrap burnt to make a fire nothing much to wish for is it? ~