'She flew' I claim as I sift through the tip. A puny mew pines 'yin!' from the nub of a mauve jug, perched on a sheer face of muck. I say that hokey pokey witch put paid to our town. Her voice that charmed lava from sand on Oslo beach. If my Nordic bones sing true - and they do - that hitter of poison won't live to complete her sixer of evil. Nay, I'll quell my rage, an' go. Butter won't melt in my gab. Cover the zit in gauze and brush off the ants, I'm leaving to put a dent in a demon. Near her door there's a doo of peace, but my id says no: the time of deliverance is nigh.
This is what happens if you play a game of scrabble, write down all the words played in order, then make a story out of them. You have to use them in the order played, and you can use little connectives aswell. It's funny how connections appear. This is a game from last summer between me, my grandma and my mum. I rediscovered the story today.