A Long Weekend in Emerald City (Owl and Dylan Book 2)

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The cherry on top is the reemergence of her cheating ex, crawling back and begging for another chance. Roxy needs to sift through the chaos of her relationships and find the culprit destroying the competition before it gets too hot in the kitchen. For those who follow my Twitter and Facebook posts, know that I have a gigantic Nerd Hat and love of comics and graphic novels. I was a sedentary child. Allergic to everything outside and am too uncoordinated to play sports.

What else do you want from me? With Marvel dominating the media on both television and screen, uniting series after series together, and DC Comics desperate to catch up to its major rival, comics exponentially growing fan base is desperate to learn more about origins of the artistry, story telling, and illustrated commentary on the human condition.

Do I grab the most recent Batman comic, or X-Men series? One of the first places that provides a simple guide is this website. Try listening to this dude. Below is advice from Professor Thorgi.

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His video is a bit long, so save it for when you have time to sit down with a glass of Red Shirt Ale. On the plus side, he sounds like the Chocolate Rain Singer , so I laugh while being informed. Please enjoy his video, if only to enjoy that velvety smooth Chocolate Rain voice to sooth your evening blues. Comic book love and hugs, KB. This is not a drill! I will be there LIVE to chat and host some online party games for you. What could be better? I have no idea! You can access the Facebook Event here: Please do not contact Facebook for any prize s distribution you may incur.

Please contact Trifecta Publishing House directly. A Roxy Summers Mystery 2 set to release later this year!

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I have to tell you, Precious Readers. I was blown away by my first cover. I would love to know what you think. A Roxy Summers Mystery 2! Insert favorite fanfare noise here. Are you following me on Instagram? I was literally stepping off of the plane into Incheon International Airport when I received the news! Now that it is, I thought you should know immediately after family was contacted! Are you doing a happy dance? Are you dancing with me? Keep an eye here, on Facebook , Twitter , and my Instagram over the next few months as more details come out.

Thank you to everyone at Trifecta Publishing House for taking a chance on an unknown writer! I look forward to working with you! We added a new addition to the family, Lou! Ocky Milkman on his round. Half dew it is. Snuffle on, Ocky, watering the town. Now the voices round the pump can see somebody coming. Who cuddled you when? Which of their pandering hubbies moaned in Milk Wood for your naughty mothering arms and body like a wardrobe, love?

Bread is baking, pigs are grunting, chop goes the butcher, milk-churns bell, tills ring, sheep cough, dogs shout, saws sing. Outside, the sun springs down on the rough and tumbling town. It runs through the hedges of Goosegog Lane, cuffing the birds to sing. Spring whips green down Cockle Row, and the shells ring out. Llaregyb this snip of a morning is wildfruit and warm, the streets, fields, sands and waters springing in the young sun.

Evans the Death presses hard with black gloves on the coffin of his breast in case his hearts jumps out,. Spring this strong morning foams in a flame in Jack Black as he cobbles a high-heeled shoe for Mrs Dai Bread Two the gypsy, but he hammers it sternly out. Mary Ann Sailors says very softly to herself as she looks out at Llaregyb Hill from the bedroom where she was born. From Manchester House, Llaregyb. Also Ready to Wear for All Occasions. Advertising Weekly in the Twll Bugle.

Beloved Myfanwy Price my Bride in Heaven,. I love you until Death do us part and then we shall be together for ever and ever. A new parcel of ribbons has come from Carmarthen today, all the colours in the rainbow. I wish I could tie a ribbon in your hair a white one but it cannot be. I dreamed last night you were all dripping wet and you sat on my lap as the Reverend Jenkins went down the street.

I see you got a mermaid in your lap he said and he lifted his hat. He is a proper Christian. Not like Cherry Owen who said you should have thrown her back he said.

Business is very poorly. Polly Garter bought two garters with roses but she never got stockings so what is the use I say. I sold a packet of pins to Tom the Sailors to pick his teeth. If this goes on I shall be in the workhouse. My heart is in your bosom and yours is in mine. I must stop now and remain, Your Eternal, Mog Edwards. And Willy Nilly, rumbling, jockeys out again to the three-seated shack called the House of Commons in the back where the hens weep, and sees, in sudden Springshine,. Green and gold money, tobacco, tinned salmon, hats with feathers, pots of fish-paste, warmth for the winter-to-be, weave and leap in it rich and slippery in the flash and shapes of fishes through the cold sea-streets.

But with blue lazy eyes the fishermen gaze at that milkmaid whispering water with no nick or ripple as though it blew great guns and serpents and typhooned the town.

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And they thank God, and gob at a gull for luck, and moss-slow and silent make their way uphill, from the still still sea, towards the Sailors Arms as the children. And Captain Cat at his window says soft to himself the words of their song. Johnnie Crack and Flossie Snail Kept their baby in a milking pail One would put it back and one would pull it out And all it had to drink was ale and stout For Johnnie Crack and Flossie Snail Always used to say that stout and ale Was good for a baby in a milking pail.

Mrs Ogmore—Pritchard belches in a teeny hanky and chases the sunlight with a flywhisk, but even she cannot drive out the Spring: Mrs Dai Bread Two is looking into a crystal ball which she holds in the lap of her dirty yellow petticoat, hard against her hard dark thighs. I see a featherbed. With three pillows on it. And a text above the bed. Now they have blown away. God is Love, the text says. He got a wall eye. He looks at them both, with his head cocked on one side.

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The coastline of shifting sands is dynamic and unpredictable. With Gratitude, Johnny Carrabba: In the dark breakfast-room behind the shop, Mr and Mrs Beynon, waited upon by their treasure, enjoy, between bites, their everymorning hullabaloo, and Mrs Beynon slips the gristly bits under the tasselled tablecloth to her fat cat. Mr Ogmore hopes that it is not for him. She swallows a digestive tablet as big as a horse-pill, washing it down with clouded peasoup water. Got it from a old tom cat.

Now he grips his little arms round one of the women. The morning is all singing. And Mr Waldo, who is thinking of a woman soft as Eve and sharp as sciatica to share his bread-pudding bed, answers. Boys boys boys Kiss Gwennie where she says Or give her a penny. Gossamer Beynon high-heels out of school The sun hums down through the cotton flowers of her dress into the bell of her heart and buzzes in the honey there and couches and kisses, lazy-loving and boozed, in her red-berried breast. She blazes naked past the Sailors Arms, the only woman on the Dai—Adamed earth.

Sinbad Sailors places on her thighs still dewdamp from the first mangrowing cockcrow garden his reverent goat-bearded hands. Oh, beautiful beautiful Gossamer B, I wish I wish that you were for me. I wish you were not so educated. She feels his goatbeard tickle her in the middle of the world like a tuft of wiry fire, and she turns in a terror of delight away from his whips and whiskery conflagration, and sits down in the kitchen to a plate heaped high with chips and the kidneys of lambs. In the blind-drawn dark dining-room of School House, dusty and echoing as a dining-room in a vault, Mr and Mrs Pugh are silent over cold grey cottage pie.

Mr Pugh reads, as he forks the shroud meat in, from Lives of the Great Poisoners. He has bound a plain brown-paper cover round the book. Slyly, between slow mouthfuls, he sidespies up at Mrs Pugh, poisons her with his eye, then goes on reading. He underlines certain passages and smiles in secret.

She swallows a digestive tablet as big as a horse-pill, washing it down with clouded peasoup water. Alone in the hissing laboratory of his wishes, Mr Pugh minces among bad vats and jeroboams, tiptoes through spinneys of murdering herbs, agony dancing in his crucibles, and mixes especially for Mrs Pugh a venomous porridge unknown to toxicologists which will scald and viper through her until her ears fall off like figs, her toes grow big and black as balloons, and steam comes screaming out of her navel.

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I saw you talking to a saint this morning. She was martyred again last night. Mrs Organ Morgan saw her with Mr Waldo. Sometimes I like Fred best and sometimes I like Arthur. Who do you like best, Organ? And she bursts into tears, and, in the middle of her salty howling, nimbly spears a small flatfish and pelicans it whole. Lord Cut—Glass, in his kitchen full of time, squats down alone to a dogdish, marked Fido, of peppery fish-scraps and listens to the voices of his sixty-six clocks, one for each year of his loony age, and watches, with love, their black-and-white moony loudlipped faces tocking the earth away: His sixty-six singers are all set at different hours.

Lord Cut—Glass lives in a house and a life at siege. Any minute or dark day now, the unknown enemy will loot and savage downhill, but they will not catch him napping. Sixty-six different times in his fish-slimy kitchen ping, strike, tick, chime, and tock. But I always think as we tumble into bed Of little Willy Wee who is dead, dead, dead.

The sunny slow lulling afternoon yawns and moons through the dozy town. The sea lolls, laps and idles in, with fishes sleeping in its lap. The meadows still as Sunday, the shut-eye tasselled bulls, the goat-anddaisy dingles, nap happy and lazy. The dumb duck-ponds snooze. Clouds sag and pillow on Llaregyb Hill.

Pigs grunt in a wet wallow-bath, and smile as they snort and dream. They dream of the acorned swill of the world, the rooting for pig-fruit, the bagpipe dugs of the mother sow, the squeal and snuffle of yesses of the women pigs in rut.

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They mud-bask and snout in the pig-loving sun; their tails curl; they rollick and slobber and snore to deep, smug, after-swill sleep. Donkeys angelically drowse on Donkey Down. Mr Pugh cringes awake. He puts on a soft-soaping smile: His fawning measly quarter-smile freezes. Captain Cat, at his window thrown wide to the sun and the clippered seas he sailed long ago when his eyes were blue and bright, slumbers and voyages; ear-ringed and rolling, I Love You Rosie Probert tattooed on his belly, he brawls with broken bottles in the fug and babel of the dark dock bars, roves with a herd of short and good time cows in every naughty port and twines and souses with the drowned and blowzy-breasted dead.

He weeps as he sleeps and sails. One voice of all he remembers most dearly as his dream buckets down. Lazy early Rosie with the flaxen thatch, whom he shared with Tom—Fred the donkeyman and many another seaman, clearly and near to him speaks from the bedroom of her dust. In that gulf and haven, fleets by the dozen have anchored for the little heaven of the night; but she speaks to Captain napping Cat alone. What sea beasts were In the wavery green When you were my master?

Seas barking like seals, Blue seas and green, Seas covered with eels And mermen and whales. What seas were rocking My little deck hand My favourite husband In your seaboots and hunger My duck my whaler My honey my daddy My pretty sugar sailor. With my name on your belly When you were a boy Long long ago? The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs. The earth which filled her mouth Is vanishing from her.

I have forgotten you. I am going into the darkness of the darkness for ever. I have forgotten that I was ever born. She sees in the still middle of the bluebagged bay Nogood Boyo fishing from the Zanzibar. She shakes her brass nightgown, and he chases her out of his mind; and when he comes gusting back, there in the bloodshot centre of his eye a geisha girl grins and bows in a kimono of ricepaper.

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The land fades, the sea flocks silently away; and through the warm white cloud where he lies, silky, tingling, uneasy Eastern music undoes him in a Japanese minute. The afternoon buzzes like lazy bees round the flowers round Mae Rose Cottage. Nearly asleep in the field of nannygoats who hum and gently butt the sun, she blows love on a puffball. He loves me He loves me not He loves me He loves me not He loves me! Lazy she lies alone in clover and sweet-grass, seventeen and never been sweet in the grass ho ho. Portraits of famous bards and preachers, all fur and wool from the squint to the kneecaps, hang over him heavy as sheep, next to faint lady watercolours of pale green Milk Wood like a lettuce salad dying.

His mother, propped against a pot in a palm, with her wedding-ring waist and bust like a black-clothed dining-table suffers in her stays. There is no known likeness of his father Esau, who, undogcollared because of his little weakness, was scythed to the bone one harvest by mistake when sleeping with his weakness in the corn. He lost all ambition and died, with one leg.

The coming of the end of the Spring day is already reflected in the lakes of their great eyes. Bessie Bighead greets them by the names she gave them when they were maidens. Look up Bessie Bighead in the White Book of Llaregyb and you will find the few haggard rags and the one poor glittering thread of her history laid out in pages there with as much love and care as the lock of hair of a first lost love.

In her life-long low light, holily Bessie milks the fond lake-eyed cows as dusk showers slowly down over byre, sea and town. Now the town is disk. Llaregyb is the capital of dusk. Mrs Ogmore—Pritchard, at the first drop of the dusk-shower, seals all her sea-view doors, draws the germ-free blinds, sits, erect as a dry dream on a high-backed hygienic chair and wills herself to cold, quick sleep. At once, at twice, Mr Ogmore and Mr Pritchard, who all dead day long have been gossiping like ghosts in the woodshed, planning the loveless destruction of their glass widow, reluctantly sigh and sidle into her clean house.

There is acid love in her voice for one of the two shambling phantoms. Mr Ogmore hopes that it is not for him. So does Mr Pritchard. Down in the dusking town, Mae Rose Cottage, still lying in clover, listens to the nannygoats chew, draws circles of lipstick round her nipples. We are not wholly bad or good Who live our lives under Milk Wood, And Thou, I know, wilt be the first To see our best side, not our worst.

O let us see another day! Bless us all this night, I pray, And to the sun we all will bow And say, good-bye — but just for now! Jack Black prepares once more to meet his Satan in the Wood. And Cherry Owen, sober as Sunday as he is every day of the week, goes off happy as Saturday to get drunk as a deacon as he does every night. Dusk is drowned for ever until tomorrow, It is all at once night now, The windy town is a hill of windows, and from the larrupped waves the lights of the lamps in the windows call back the day and the dead that have run away to sea.

All over the calling dark, babies and old men are bribed and lullabied to sleep. Rockabye, grandpa, in the tree top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock, When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, Down will come grandpa, whiskers and all. Or their daughters cover up the old unwinking men like parrots, and in their little dark in the lit and bustling young kitchen corners, all night long they watch, beady-eyed, the long night through in case death catches them asleep.

Unmarried girls, alone in their privately bridal bedrooms, powder and curl for the Dance of the World. They make, in front of their looking-glasses, haughty or come-hithering faces for the young men in the street outside, at the lamplit leaning corners, who wait in the all-at-once wind to wolve and whistle. Llaregyb Hill, that mystic tumulus, the memorial of peoples that dwelt in the region of Llaregyb before the Celts left the Land of Summer and where the old wizards made themselves a wife out of flowers. Six cold pennies he gave me Not a farthing more or less And all the fare I could afford Was parsnip gin and watercress.

I did not need a knife and fork Or a bib up to my chin To dine on a dish of watercress And a jug of parsnip gin.