OrGod. Or a horse, or a fence-post, or, for that matter, a cantaloupe. Arevisionist literary theorist could write a fairly well-reasoned booksupportin... any of those hypotheses, as well as a dozen others equally ifnot more bizarre. "Edgar Birdwell: First Poet Lover ofExtraterrestrials."Marcia could see it on the Hope Crossing library bookshelf now. Ofcourse, like Birdwell, she'd have to publish it herself.In the end, what was inspiring about Birdwell was not what he'd written,but how much he'd. .”“I doubt we’ll be out here all night, E. Thanks,” I replied with a smile.When Eda closed the backdoor behind her, Brick let a loud sigh escape from her body and rapped her fingers on the picnic table. “So, Miss Lisa Conchita Masciotro...” I softly said and purposefully left it at her full name.“I, uh, I sooo badly wanted to suck on you when I pulled your shorts down, I could hardly breathe and you, you simply said, ‘No’. What was that all about? You woulda let the others do it, but not me.. More

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