The Sun that Shone like Sleeping Toads
A Short Story
by Random Writer
Daniel Russell looked at the damp knife in his hands and felt fuzzy.
He walked over to the window and reflected on his chilly surroundings. He had always loved grey Plymouth with its magnificent, melted mountains. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel fuzzy.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Sally Johnson. Sally was a splendid writer with grubby warts and fluffy abs.