17. The man lobbed peas at me in restaurants, he put mucus on doorknobs,
he once crept under the dais and tied tin cans to my ankle as I accepted an
award from the Women's Club, and finally he got the close-up he wanted:
me, enraged, stricken, lurching at him, hair disheveled, waving my arms,
mouth like an open wound, spit dripping, a maniac. [Garrison Keillor,
"That Old 'Picayune-Moon'" Harper's Sept 1990, p. 70.]
Got questions?
Writing Center Homepage