Alphabet's End

So I'll speak ill of the dead. A was crooked, planting the small left finger of the raccoon in the upholstery before he sold the car. B made certain to point out Celia's bewildered look before her pink slip came in the flimsy institution. In the videos of C, a jejune overwhelmed the cast. D built dollhouses. Even Lonnie down at Shell found him less a man for it, the night they went off to see the stock cars break. I wanted E's hair, but by the end it was no more. F refused alms, pulling the man up by his shirt in the street, and G sought rewards. Marybeth said H fondled her for sport. Now you, I, Smokey, hell bent on a village version of Club 21, embarrassed by our attentions. Mistrust it was. Dig me a chamber of preparedness. William T. Osborn, 1964-1993