I'm Gonna Be A New Kind Of

When I Pointed To Him His Palms Slipped Slightly, Leaving Greasy Sweat Streaks On The Wall, And He Hooked His Thumbs In His Belt. A Strange Spasm Shook Him, As If He Heard Fingernails Scrape Slate, But As I Gazed At Him In Wonder The Tension Slowly Drained From His Face. His Lips Parted Into A Timid Smile, And Our Neighbor’s Image Blurred With My Sudden Tears. “hey, Boo,” I Said. “mr. Arthur, Honey,” Said Atticus, Gently Correcting Me. “jean Louise, This Is Mr. Arthur Radley. I Believe He Already Knows You.

Cecil Jacobs Is A Big Wet Hen!

Any Writer Worth His Salt Writes To Please Himself...it's A Self-exploratory Operation That Is Endless. An Exorcism Of Not Necessarily His Demon, But Of His Divine Discontent.

Mr. Avery Said It Was Written On The Rosetta Stone That When Children Disobeyed Their Parents, Smoked Cigarettes And Made War On Each Other, The Seasons Would Change: Jem And I Were Burdened With The Guilt Of Contributing To The Aberrations Of Nature, Thereby Causing Unhappiness To Our Neighbors And Discomfort To Ourselves.

Where Are Your Pants, Son?