If it were possible to be depressed, Hunter was not aware of it. He played with his new zipper thoughtfully.

Schnorer liked to check out his aging mother's current reading material. In the back seat of her pink 1953 Buick hearse he found a Basque dictionary and a Basque paperback. Translated, the title was 'How to reduce by using fewer vowels in your speech'. He got out of the car and walked home, refusing rides from several young Carmelite nuns along the way.

Frightened by the sound of the wounded Emu, Hunter ran from room to room, searching for his teddy bear, tears on his face.

She turned to sneeze, but, thinking better of it, burped instead.

There was a tombstone tattooed on his ear. It said,'Common Sense, R.I.P.'.

Being preoccupied, she couldn't do anything posthaste.

Protruding from the woodpile was an ancient prosthetic leg.

Three generations of Mathers had died in that hospital, in a reserved private room.

A turn of the key wouldn't produce a result from the cold, sullen car.

The cookies were beyond compare, they were rotten.

The flea had gotten under her watchband.

The hard spray of the shower hit just the wrong places on her body, no matter how she turned. The water stank.

He hit the radio so hard the batteries fell out on his bare feet.