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[dev-serveez] rough order of service for Sunday

From: Karin Peoples
Subject: [dev-serveez] rough order of service for Sunday
Date: Mon, 08 Jan 2007 15:40:02 -0500
User-agent: Calypso Version

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part of his mind scolded wearily after awhile. The rat fled. If a class was boring, or if I had to babysit Mrs Krenmitz's four brats downstairs. He heard a wooden thunk, a metallic clunk, and then a shaking sound he had heard some place before. Then he saw that the first Paul Sheldon's face had turned a ghastly white as soon as the sand struck it and fear jerked him out of the dream and into the bedroom, where Annie Wilkes was standing over him. His first cursory glance had taken in the shelves with their stacks of folded sheets and pillow-cases and washcloths and towels. Not for the first time it occurred to him that Ian's possession of the woman Geoffrey loved just as dearly (if secretly) allowed Ian to indulge in an odd sort of selfishness and an almost womanly hysteria that Geoffrey himself must forgo; after all, to the rest of the world he was only Misery's friend.Yes, it has. It was his first real smile in months, radiant and genuine. "he asked. you know. Good.

The last few days, he thought, had been like some nightmare autographing session that just never ended. Most of the paper was on the floor now, either still burning or hissing to ruin in puddles of champagne, but Annie still held some, and it was still burning. She spent nearly half an hour hosing blood off the mower and driveway and the side lawn, while interlinked rainbows glimmered in the spray. Oh boy it was bad and oh boy it was good and oh boy in the end it didn't matter how rude it was or how crude it was because in the end it was just like the Jacksons said on that record — don't stop til you get enough. "I don't kid myself that you care, I don't kid myself about that at all, but you know. This was the second time she'd shown not the slightest interest in a trick of the trade that would have held a class of would-be writers spellbound. "He went on looking at her and after a moment she looked away, impatient and a little flustered. It makes the stuff you guys do look about as scary as a ride on the Central Park carousel. "GET OFF ME YOU COCKADOODIE BR — " He stuffed paper, white bond and black charred onionskin, into that gaping, screaming mouth. She would have lain awake at night, looking up at the ceiling of her bedroom, listening to the high-country whine of the wind, imagining the people who must be thinking of her with either dislike or outright malevolence — all the world's Roydmans — people who might, any of them, at any time, take a notion to call her on the telephone and scream: You did it, Annie! and if I give you what you want, you won't like it, and you won't want it anymore. Suppose that, just this once, the oneHis pencil paused in mid-word at the sound of an approaching engine. It was Careless just killed this guy in a Times Square movie theater and now he's got to get the body back to his car without anyone saying "Hey mister, is that guy as dead as he looks or did he just pitch a fit or something? Followed by an elderly man who had died of that perennial bridesmaid, Short Illness. The prosecution's case was entire only circumstantial, and in places thin enough to read a newspaper through. So Annie took the box and lit the match and put the lit match in his hand and he touched it to the comer of the paper and then let the match fall into the pot and watched, fascinated, as the flame tasted, then gulped. "When he saw her again, she had a big green garbage bag in her hands and three or four more sticking out of the back pockets of her jeans. "And sometimes, Colter, when someone especially fine passes away — someone especially dear to us all — we find it hard to let that someone go. a sound which had at first muffled and then drowned the woman's agonized dying screams. The gotta, as in: "I think I'll stay up another fifteen-twenty minutes, honey, I gotta see how this chapter comes out. Then the awareness that, although the pain was constant, it was sometimes buried by an uneasy compromise which he supposed was relief. For a moment he lay there with his legs drawn up, looking as helpless as a turtle on its shell.

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